All the Wrong Choices
by QueenOfTheDreamers87
Summary: Hermione is kidnapped by Severus Snape and taken to Lord Voldemort, who behaves in a bizarrely familiar manner with Hermione. When she's rocketed back in time by Voldemort, she realises just why he knew her so well in the 1990s - it was because he'd known her very well indeed, as Tom Riddle, in an entirely different time. She had to go back because she'd been there. Re-upload.
1. Chapter 1

Hermione Granger huffed in frustration and stuffed her Potions text into her rucksack. The bag tore in the corner, the black canvas giving way to the brute force with which Hermione had shoved in the book. Her angry breath quivered in her nostrils as she reached for her wand and mended the torn material, wordlessly swinging the rucksack over her shoulder and tossing her wild hair behind her shoulders.

She stormed from the Potions classroom, leaving Harry and Ron behind. She was tired of arguing about the damned 'Half-Blood Prince,' and she was tired of scolding the boys for using the 'Prince's' textbook for cheating. More importantly, she was tired of looking like a failure in Potions just because Harry had some (admittedly brilliant) scribbles in the margins of his book.

Professor Slughorn was convinced that Harry was a Potions genius. _Just like your mother_ , Professor Slughorn was wont to gush, as he stared admiringly at Harry's finished products. Meanwhile, Hermione would seeth nearby with her adequate-but-not-brilliant work. Every time she tried to bring the book up, Harry and Ron rebuffed her. Now, as she flounced angrily down the Potions corridor, she ignored the way that Ron called from behind her.

"'Mione, hang on! You're being ridiculous."

She paused for a brief moment, just long enough to throw Ron a narrow-eyed glare over her shoulder, and then she kept going. _She_ was being ridiculous? _She_ was? That was rich.

Hermione didn't sit near Harry and Ron at dinner that evening, nor did she share a table with them in the Gryffindor Common Room as they all worked on homework. The three of them had stubbornly settled into their opinions, and no one seemed willing to budge. Ginny Weasley made a half-hearted attempt at reconciliation among the Trio, but it was useless, and soon enough Ginny gave up and decided all three of them were sufficiently unpleasant.

After a while, Hermione could no longer remember specifically why she was feeling cross with Ron and Harry. All she could think was that their very presence in the same room as her was stifling and obnoxious, and she decided to go find an empty classroom to do her work alone. She was a prefect, after all, and it was only nine.

She could feel Ron and Harry staring at her as she made her way out of the portrait hole, but she cocked her chin up and sniffed imperiously, ignoring them both. She made her way down a flight of stairs and along an empty corridor, checking doorknobs until she found one that led to a disused room. She illuminated a few lanterns inside the space and settled into a desk. The silence would have been stifling, perhaps, if she didn't need it tonight.

Hermione extracted a thick tome from her rucksack, as well as several bits of parchment and a quill, and she set to work upon a History of Magic essay.

' _Augureys thrive in rainy conditions,'_ she read from the text, ' _and their populations are especially vulnerable to times of drought. During the English Drought of 1921, the position of augureys in the wizarding world was changed forever. Previously, the magical birds were considered critical to divining death. However, during the Drought of 1921, it was discovered by Magical zoologist Fauna Cavallo that the augurey merely sounds in anticipation of rain. Since many people died in 1921, but no rain fell, and no augureys made a sound, she was able to draw this conclusion. Thereafter, even after the resumption of regular rain, the position of augureys diminished greatly in importance. It is critical to note, however -'_

There was a small click behind Hermione, at the door, and she whirled over her shoulder and furrowed her brows.

"I'm just using this room to study!" she called out rather cautiously. Was there a teacher there - someone who had seen the light of the lanterns in the cracks around the thick door? There was no answer, but Hermione saw the movement of shadows beneath the threshold of the classroom door. She frowned deeply and said in a firm voice, "If it's Harry and Ron, you can just bugger off. I don't want to -"

She would later reflect that she'd had a split second to _do_ something, but she didn't. She didn't set down her quill. She didn't pick up her wand. She would never be able to say why not.

And so she was utterly defenceless when the door flew open with a _bang_ and a low voice murmured, " _Petrificus totalus!"_

Hermione's eyes flew open and she felt her body stiffen at once, and then suddenly she fell like a stone from her chair. She could not move; she could not speak. But she could hear and see, and suddenly she was acutely aware of the fact that Professor Severus Snape was hovering over her, his wand pointed down at her face.

There was an odd look in his dark eyes. It was something Hermione had never seen before - almost regretful in nature. He sighed quietly as he took in the sight of Hermione's bound body lying still and silent upon the classroom floor, and then Professor Snape said quietly,

"Miss Granger, I'm afraid I have to take you away from here for a while."

 _What?_ Hermione wanted to shout at him, to hex him and run away, for a terrible feeling of dread was washing over her. But she was paralysed, and so all she could do was stare up at him with a pleading expression in her chestnut eyes. Where was he taking her? What had he done? _Harry and Ron were right_ , she thought suddenly, _Snape is evil._

But then Professor Snape sighed again, rather heavily, and licked his bottom lip as he considered what to say. "Time is a terribly complicated mistress," he informed her, and Hermione felt more confused than ever. Professor Snape continued, "Free will only extends so far, Miss Granger. Unfortunately, I have no choice in this matter. These things _did_ happen, and so they _must_ happen. You will understand. I… am sorry."

Hermione's mind was shrieking in terror. Her heart was pounding in her chest like a massive drum, and she wanted to thrash and scream and get away. The powerlessness of the Body-Bind Curse combined with her fear to create utter panic in her head, and she was dizzy as she lay upon the ground.

She watched as Professor Snape pointed his wand at her textbook, at her parchments and her rucksack. " _Evanesco,_ " he mumbled, and the objects Vanished into non-being. He picked up Hermione's vine wand and tucked it into his flowing black robes, and then he turned back to face her. He drew his wand down through the air, over her form, in an elegant pattern, and murmured the incantation to Disillusion her. " _Wingardium leviosa,_ " Snape said quietly, and Hermione felt herself being lifted off the ground by his magic.

She was still completely paralysed as Professor Snape opened the classroom door, pointing his wand surreptitiously at her and guiding her hovering form down the corridor. Soon they were outside the castle, making their way over rocky paths and grassy expanses, and Hermione realised that Snape was taking her to the Apparition Point.

 _Where is he taking me?_ Her panicked thoughts sounded shrill in her own head. She wanted to ask Professor Snape why he'd done this - why he'd barged into the classroom and hexed her and Vanished her belongings and cryptically made it sound like he was carrying out a death sentence. On whose orders was he acting? Dumbledore's, or Voldemort's? Neither? Both? She had no idea anymore where Professor Snape's loyalties were, but as her immobile and invisible body was guided by his wand, she realised that he was no ally of hers.

"When we land, Miss Granger," she heard Professor Snape saying somewhere beyond her peripheral vision, "this Body-Bind will wear off and you will be fully ambulatory. You must not attack me, or it will mean catastrophe… for you and for everyone else. Please understand, I mean you no bodily harm. I am… only doing as I'm ordered."

Hermione internally shivered at the way Professor Snape's low, silvery voice was twinged with sorrow and sadness. She was used to him being sharp and severe, but tonight he sounded as though he deeply regretted his actions.

 _What on Earth is happening?_ Hermione's mind was a jumble of fear as she felt Professor Snape's left hand make contact with her hovering shoulder. _What orders is he following? Where is he taking me?_

Then, suddenly, a new thought entered Hermione's mind, and her stomach felt cold as terror spiked through her.

 _I'm going to die tonight. They're trying to use me to get to Harry. This is how I die. Professor Snape takes me somewhere and I die._

The Hogwarts grounds disappeared then, and Hermione felt herself pulled sharply backward by her naval into an abyss. She was being squeezed and pinched and pushed and pulled all at once, and a terrible wave of nausea crashed over her. In an instant, it was over and she fell hard onto her knees as a loud _crack!_ hammered her eardrums.

Hermione gagged a bit and quickly scrambled to her feet, brushing grass and dirt from her hands and school robes as she looked fearfully around her. She was standing in front of a large iron gate, behind which an imposing mansion loomed. Hermione stared for a moment through the iron bars at the large, formidable home. Then, from beside her, she heard Professor Snape's voice say,

"Welcome to Malfoy Manor, Miss Granger. Come with me, if you please."

Hermione suspected she had no choice at all in the matter, and she made no effort to retrieve her wand from Professor Snape. She mutely followed him through the gate and up the path to the front door of the large home, feeling a sinking sensation of dread coming over her as they climbed the marble steps up to the front doors.

Professor Snape flicked his eyes downward to Hermione before he raised his hand to the knocker. He looked her up and down with an unreadable expression - curiosity, perhaps, or pity - and then whispered, "I _am_ very sorry, Miss Granger."

Before Hermione could demand an explanation for being kidnapped and whisked off to Malfoy Manor, Professor Snape was knocking. A moment later, the thick black wooden doors swung open, and Hermione had to stifle a gasp of horror.

Bellatrix Lestrange. Hermione had not seen the witch in person since the battle at the Department of Mysteries, the night this terrible woman had murdered Sirius Black. Hermione's fingers unconsciously flew to touch the place between her breasts, the place where Antonin Dolohov's awful curse had slashed her insides and nearly killed her. The burning, searing pain was suddenly there again, as if the wound were fresh, and Hermione gulped.

The heavy-lidded eyes of Bellatrix Lestrange widened when the witch took in Professor Snape and Hermione. Her look of surprise quickly faded and Bellatrix cleared her throat with feigned delicacy, and then she sneered in a tight voice,

"Snape. Lovely to see you, as always. And you've brought a Mudblood. How considerate."

Hermione felt a pang of rage then. She hated Bellatrix Lestrange enough as it was; now the witch was directly insulting her to her face, and Hermione didn't even know why she was here. She likely had only moments to live, she considered, but if she could accomplish anything for the Order in those last few moments, she would do it. Incurring Bellatrix's wrath wouldn't help anything. So Hermione just flashed a glare at the wild-eyed witch and ground her teeth in silence.

"Step aside, Bella," Professor Snape said smoothly. "Is he upstairs?"

Bellatrix looked hesitant, but pulled the door open wider and fell back a bit. She regarded Professor Snape and Hermione with great suspicion as they stepped over the threshold into the cavernous foyer.

"You know very well, Snape, that the Dark Lord is a very busy man. I very much doubt he has time to grant an audience to a Mudblood. Why are you here?"

Hermione was surprised by the level of animosity between Bellatrix and Professor Snape, and she flicked her eyes back and forth between them curiously. Professor Snape's face was blank and stony as he cocked up a single eyebrow and asked,

"Oh… he didn't tell you? I'd have thought _you_ of all people would have known. But, then, it is quite easy to overestimate one's importance…" He shrugged airily and sighed a bit. Bellatrix looked enraged, her cheeks going dark pink and her black eyes flashing. Professor Snape continued, "In any case, he _is_ expecting me. If he's upstairs, then I shall simply make my way there. Good evening, Bella. It is always a pleasure when you grace my presence. Come, Miss Granger."

Hermione scowled at being addressed like a dog, but she knew the wisest and most calculated move right now was to stay silent. She would observe carefully and strike if she could, if necessary. She felt a flutter of terrified anxiety pumping through her veins as she climbed a flight of marble stairs. She stayed close to Professor Snape, wondering if perhaps he _was_ an ally - if he was doing something for the Order and she just wasn't privy to the details. After all, Professor Dumbledore trusted him…

But any thought of that dissipated the moment Hermione and Professor Snape stepped into a grand, wood-paneled dining room. In the dim light of many candles, Hermione saw a figure standing in the shadows. A tall, lean form, with gray skin and dark robes, appeared to be staring out the windows. At the figure's feet, a large snake was elegantly coiled, looking comfortably at rest. The figure had his arms crossed, with long, thin fingers curled around his elbows. Hermione shivered at the sight of the figure - a man? - for the gray hue of his flesh was profoundly unnerving.

She did not need any introduction to the wizard before her. Harry had described the resurrected Lord Voldemort in great detail after the Triwizard Tournament, and though Hermione had been incapacitated by the time he'd arrived, Voldemort had been at the Department of Mysteries, as well. She'd never seen the man in person, but she'd heard enough. Flesh the color of clay, a bald head that looked like a veined stone. A serpentine face with a flat nose, a heavy and bare brow line, and pale lips that made him look like a corpse. Hermione shivered the instant the figure turned around, at the sound of Professor Snape leading her into the dining room.

"My Lord," Professor Snape said deferentially, but Voldemort did not acknowledge him. His glittering scarlet eyes had trained themselves squarely onto Hermione, and his thin white lips had parted, almost as if he were surprised to see her. But hadn't Professor Snape said they were 'expected'? Hermione felt a cringe of fear as she wondered if she would die _now_ , if Voldemort was about to raise his wand and cast a Killing Curse straight at her.

"Her wand, Severus." His voice was a rasp, but still oddly melodic. Hermione quivered where she stood as Professor Snape hesitated for the briefest of moments before pulling Hermione's vine wand from his robes and handing it over to the Dark Lord.

Voldemort took the wand with a smooth motion of his hand, his gray skeletal fingers wrapping around the wand and staring at it for a moment before he murmured, "Leave us, Severus."

Professor Snape made eye contact with Hermione for the smallest of instants before giving a little obeisance and backing out of the room. Hermione wondered if she would ever see anyone besides Voldemort again - if the last 'real person' she'd see in her life would be the dreary, mean-spirited Professor Snape.

That thought made her want to laugh and cry at once. She turned her attention back to Voldemort and saw that he was staring again at her. Hermione abruptly felt self-conscious, and wondered distantly whether she might have sprouted three heads in the past few moments. Why was Lord Voldemort staring at her for so long? The silence of the dining room was heavy and oppressive, and Hermione felt suddenly weak at the knees and reached out for the dining room table for support.

She stayed quiet, just as she'd done with Professor Snape. What was she supposed to do? She had no wand. He was the most powerful Dark wizard the world had ever seen. He stood near enough that she could see the eerie slits of his pupils, the way his blue veins darted around beneath his papery skin. Hermione shivered and gripped the table, preparing herself to die.

She thought briefly of her mum and dad, wondering what Professor Dumbledore would tell them. Would he tell them the truth - that Hermione had been kidnapped and murdered by Voldemort? Or would they be merciful and Obliviate all memory of her from their minds to keep them from feeling that pain? Hermione willed the latter option, shutting her eyes for a moment as she thought of Harry and Ron. She wished suddenly that she had not been arguing with them today. That was not the way she wanted them to remember her. Their friendship had been worth more than the petty argument upon which they'd parted.

"It was raining that night," Voldemort's smooth rasp said, breaking Hermione from her reverie. Her eyes sprang open and she furrowed her thick brows, wondering what he was on about. His red eyes bored into her as if he were trying to extract something with just his gaze. He hesitated, and then quirked up a crooked little grin that sent a shiver of fear down Hermione's spine. He continued, "It had been sunny that morning, but after the sun went down, it began to rain. I remember."

Hermione opened her mouth in confusion, wondering whether Harry had been right - whether Voldemort was truly nothing more than a deranged madman. She narrowed her eyes up at the evil wizard before her, shrinking away uneasily when he took a gliding step closer to her.

Voldemort closed the gap quickly. Hermione shivered fiercely, unable to control the way her body shook with fear in his proximity. She squared her jaw and glared up at him in silence, trying to look brave and defiant. But Voldemort chuckled under his breath and noted,

"You are afraid of me."

 _Of course I am!_ Hermione's brain screamed.

"Of course you are," Voldemort nodded, as if he'd read her mind. Perhaps he had done as much. He looked mildly amused as he reached out one of his bony hands and cupped Hermione's jaw. She flinched at his cold, calloused touch, feeling repulsed and humiliated despite their solitude. Voldemort's red eyes were still locked onto hers, and he murmured in a strangely soothing tone, "Of course you are afraid of me. Why wouldn't you be? It's what I wanted, isn't it?"

Hermione realized then that he _was_ mad. He had to be. He was speaking utter nonsense; he was caressing her jaw and cheek as if they were more than familiar with one another.

 _Just kill me,_ Hermione thought, thrusting forth her thoughts into the mind of the Legilimens before her. _Please, just kill me. Just do it. Stop mocking me and just kill me._

Voldemort actually looked slightly confused as he tipped his head to the side and lowered his hand from Hermione's jaw. "Now, why on Earth would I want to do a thing like that?" he demanded softly, and Hermione felt ill. He _had_ read her mind, and he was still speaking madness. What was this? Was this a game, a trick?

"Your eyes," Voldemort said, and another awkward smile crossed his pale, thin lips. "I remember the way your eyes look when you concentrate very hard on something."

How could he possibly _remember_ anything about Hermione? She had never met Voldemort, as far as she knew. Unless someone had erased her memory…? She started flipping through possibilities in her mind of what the madman could be on about, but then he said,

"You were there, on this night fifty-three years ago. You _were_ there, and so now I must send you. You understand? I don't have a choice. I very much dislike when I am not in control - you shall quickly learn that about me, I suppose. But in this matter, there can be no alteration of the path, no compromising reality. You _were_ there, and therefore now you must go."

It was the strangest, most nonsensical thing Hermione had ever heard anyone say. Finally, she spoke, for she felt as though she were inside the rambling dreams of an insane person. "I have never met you before," she insisted, spitting the words up at Voldemort with conviction.

He smiled knowingly at her, baring his stained, jagged teeth. "No, you haven't," he agreed, "but I have met you. Now… take this to Albus Dumbledore. It shall explain everything."

He extracted a rolled bit of parchment from his robes. It was tied with an emerald green ribbon and sealed with black wax. He held it to Hermione, just out of her reach, along with her wand.

"But first," he said rather hastily, "There is one thing I should like to do. I do not suppose I shall ever see you again, Hermione. So I'd like a farewell token, if you please."

 _Why is he calling me 'Hermione'?_ Her mind was racing with confusion and anger, but before she could demand answers, Voldemort's skeletal hand had returned to cup her cheek again. He was lowering his serpentine face to hers, and Hermione squealed in horror the moment his icy, pale lips touched hers. He moved quickly but elegantly to urge her lips apart, and he pushed his tongue into her mouth and explored a bit, sighing into Hermione's mouth as he did. When he pulled away, Voldemort looked immensely pleased with himself.

"Ah, yes," he nodded with a content expression on his snakelike countenance, "I remember _that_ , too."

Hermione took a large step backward, swiping at her mouth with the back of her hand. She felt invaded, violated, disgusted. Had she just been kissed on the mouth by _He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named_ , by the terrible Lord Voldemort, the man who had killed Harry's parents and countless other innocent souls? It was worse than a Dementor's Kiss, she considered as she tried not to vomit.

"Just kill me," she said again, her eyes burning with hot tears of rage as she glared up into the crimson irises of the Dark Lord. He quirked up that crooked smile he'd flashed her several times now, and he said in a smooth rumble,

"Try not to worry, Miss… _Villeneuve…_ " Voldemort said the surname with an air of amused distaste, "I was much better-looking then."

Hermione scowled again. She wanted to slap the ugly, wicked fool, to tell him that he didn't even know who she was. Villeneuve? Who was _that_? And why had he kissed her? And why was he now holding her wrist and guiding it toward the parchment and the wand very carefully…?

Hermione stared down at the way her hand was being dragged toward the parchment scroll and her wand, both of which sat neatly upon Voldemort's palm. She tried to physically pull away, out of instinct, but one insistent tug from him had her staring up again in fear.

Voldemort gave her one last meaningful stare, his red eyes flashing with a very strange, unreadable expression before he whispered in a rasp, "Goodbye, Hermione."

She opened her mouth to say something, to insist she be told what the devil was happening. But before she could speak, her fingers had made contact with the wax seal on the scroll. At the moment of contact, the room disappeared into a black abyss that suctioned out all light and sound and weight.

Hermione was floating in endless, dark emptiness. She was invisible. She was silent. She had no mass, no significance. She was nothing… for one very brief and terrifying instant.

Then, all of a sudden, the world returned with all of its weight and fury. Hermione landed so hard upon the ground that she let out a pained, ' _oof!'_ and rolled a few times. It was dim, and cold, and wet.

Wherever she was, it was raining.

* * *

Hermione stared up from where she'd landed to realise she was in almost the same spot where she'd been not one hour earlier. It was the Apparition Point in front of Hogwarts, but something was _off_ \- something was different. It hadn't been raining when Professor Snape had levitated her out of the castle. It was colder, too, much more so than it had been earlier. This was the same place, but it wasn't the same night.

As she pulled herself to her feet, she glanced down into her right hand, which was clutching the wax-sealed scroll and her wand. Suddenly, Lord Voldemort's words came rushing into her mind, a torrent of whispers making her realise what had happened.

' _It was raining that night… you were there, on this night fifty-three years ago… I was much better-looking then.'_

Hermione frowned down at the scroll, watching how the raindrops glided off its surface as if it were made of wax. He'd charmed the scroll to be waterproof because he knew there would be rain. Fifty-three years ago…

She'd traveled through time. Lord Voldemort had sent her fifty-three years into the past. Why? Well, according to him, she'd been there, and that was why he was compelled to send her back. Snape, too, had seemed resigned to his task, as if it were an inevitability.

Hermione stared up at the castle before her, looming in the darkness. Had she already lived this life? Had she already been to this place and time - in what was, for her, the 'past'? Had she already met Voldemort, as an older iteration of herself? Then perhaps he'd spent years waiting for her to be born and grow up to the point where he'd met her - this date, when she was eighteen.

What had happened in these years? How had her interactions with Voldemort been so important that he'd felt an apparent loss of control in 'needing' to send her back here? And Snape, too… he'd known about all of this. He'd known that Hermione was to be sent back in time. He'd apologized - several times - but had hand-delivered her to Voldemort to be sent here. Why? Voldemort's words reverberated through Hermione's head again.

' _There can be no alteration of the path, no compromising reality. You_ _ **were**_ _there, and therefore now you must go.'_

She quickly did the maths in her head - fifty-three years into the past would mean that tonight was the second of April in the year 1944. Hermione felt a sinking sense of dread. Her parents, Ginny, Harry and Ron… none of them were alive in this time. It was, in Muggle history, a time of enormous turmoil as the Second World War wracked the Earth. It was also a time during Voldemort's youth. She knew that the Dark wizard had been known by his birth name - Tom Marvolo Riddle - during this era.

Hermione took a deep, shaking breath as she walked up the path to the castle. She stopped before she crossed through the first gate, realising that she was wearing her Gryffindor robes. She glanced down at her rain-soaked clothing and wondered whether there had been any alteration in the cut or styling of the school robes in the past fifty-odd years. Just in case, she stripped off her outer black robe and Vanished it with her wand. Then she Transfigured her jumper and skirt into a grey woolen dress, one she hoped would look adequately modest and befitting of the era. Her hair would need changing, she knew, to avoid suspicion.

For now, though, Hermione trudged across the courtyard that led to the front doors of Hogwarts. She squared her jaw and determined that she was going to let the past take her where it would. She ' _had been there,_ ' after all. She ought not be afraid. Hermione decided she wasn't afraid. Truly, she was. But she decided that she wasn't.

Rather alarmingly, the enormous front doors of Hogwarts swung open out into the rainy courtyard when she approached. She sprang backwards into a bit of a defensive position, looking to see who had opened the doors. But there was no one there - the front doors had acted seemingly of their own accord.

Hermione tentatively stepped over the threshold into the great Entrance Hall. It was dim and quiet inside, almost eerily so. The place looked just as it would fifty years into the future, except for a few minor indications that time had been altered around Hermione. She glanced to her right to see that the House Points Hourglasses were at radically different levels than when she'd been levitated out of these doors by Snape just an hour or so earlier. In her own time, Gryffindor and Slytherin had been battling for the lead, with Ravenclaw in third place and Hufflepuff in fourth. Now, the hourglasses indicated a large lead for Slytherin, with Gryffindor and Hufflepuff seemingly tied for third and Ravenclaw far behind in fourth place.

There were other things, too, that told Hermione something was off. She looked across the Entrance Hall to the pale marble staircase, lined with paintings. The portraits on the walls weren't all in the right places. A few of the newer ones were missing. There was a large portrait of a woman that Hermione had never seen before.

She shivered at the thought of having moved fifty years to the past. She'd traveled through time before, on a great many occasions, when she'd used her Time Turner. She'd even coped with some of the more difficult concepts and paradoxes of time travel in her third year. But she'd never been sent fifty-three years in either direction. She had not even known that such a huge jump in time was possible. It certainly wasn't legal.

Before Hermione could think too much more on the matter, there was a soft, gentle voice from her left.

"May I help you, young lady?"

Hermione whirled over her shoulder to see Albus Dumbledore walking cautiously toward her through the darkness. He appeared to be on patrol, but he was a different wizard than Hermione would know decades later. His hair was only just starting to grey, and it was much shorter. The wand he had in his right hand was different than the one Hermione was used to seeing him wield. His robes hung elegantly over a body that moved more smoothly than Hermione would have expected. He was younger by more than fifty years, but it was Albus Dumbledore, to be certain.

"P-Professor Dumbledore?" Hermione stammered uneasily. She held out the scroll in her hand and trembled from the cold and rain. "Sir, I'm supposed to give this to you. I've no idea what it says. It… will explain everything."

She wasn't sure why she regurgitated Voldemort's words at Dumbledore, why she stood there like a fool holding out the scroll instead of shrieking that she'd been kidnapped and hurtled backward in time. For some reason, it seemed more logical - _safer_ \- to simply offer the scroll to Dumbledore as she'd been ordered to do.

Professor Dumbledore paused a few steps away from Hermione and took the scroll from her. His pale eyes weren't twinkling with kindness as they usually did. They looked utterly suspicious. He broke the wax seal and unfurled the parchment, reading through three sheets of handwriting in the longest silence Hermione had ever experienced. She shifted nervously on her feet, studying the odd similarities and differences about Dumbledore's form. At last, after a very long while, Dumbledore pointed his wand at the scroll.

" _Evanesco_ ," he said, and the papers Vanished into non-being. Hermione furrowed her brow, wondering what the letter had said. She met Dumbledore's eyes, which still bore a question in them. He said carefully, "You have a French Muggle father, Miss Villeneuve? And a witch for a mother? You were attending Beauxbatons in France, but the severity of the Muggle war forced you to flee back to Britain? Is that right?"

"Erm… yes, Sir." Hermione nodded vigorously, trying not to show any outward expression of her confusion. It was quite a story - a half-blood witch victimised by the Muggle conflict and forced to be a wizarding refugee? It was rather absurd, and yet, for the era, made just enough sense. "I'm Hermione Villeneuve. I was at Beauxbatons," Hermione continued to say, trying to burn the story into her mind. "But the Muggle Nazi forces killed my parents in our home, and I was sent to live here in Britain with relatives. Maternal relatives - wizarding relatives."

"Mm-hmm. I see." Dumbledore nodded skeptically and narrowed his pale eyes. Hermione wasn't sure whether the details she'd added to the story meshed up with what had been in the letter. In any case, Dumbledore seemed highly doubtful of any of it. Hermione was still rather surprised when he quietly said, "I can not send you back to your own time, Miss… _Granger_."

Hermione swallowed heavily. What on Earth had that letter said?

"All right, Sir," she nodded hesitantly.

 _Just going to roll over and accept your fate, Hermione? Why don't you ask him what the damned letter says? Why don't you demand to be sent back to your own time? This is madness…_

"Which House were you… _will you_ … be Sorted into?" Dumbledore was still speaking delicately, as if he were aware he needed to tread carefully. Hermione felt sick with unease; she was unaccustomed to seeing Professor Dumbledore behave this way. She cleared her throat carefully and said,

"The Sorting Hat put me into Gryffindor, Sir. I was wearing my robes when I… well, I Vanished them outside."

Dumbledore nodded and the old twinkle finally came back to his eye. "Shame," he said. "I should have liked to see if there shall be any changes to the style." He straightened and pulled at his robes a bit, sniffing as he squared his face. "Well, Miss… _Villeneuve_ … I am terribly sorry that you had to leave France. I'm sorry for the loss of your parents. Welcome _back_ to Hogwarts, I suppose. You know the way to Gryffindor Tower, I'm assuming?"

Hermione nodded, feeling her eyes burn a little as it all started to weigh on her mind. "Yes, Sir," she whispered quietly, and Dumbledore replied,

"I shall have the appropriate clothing, a course schedule, books, and other necessities sent up there - you shall be staying in the third room on the left in the girls' dormitory corridor. For now, we'll put you in your own room. The password for the Gryffindor Common Room is ' _foreordination.'_ I shall speak with Headmaster Dippet on your behalf. Please be in the Great Hall tomorrow morning for breakfast. Goodnight."

And just like that, Professor Dumbledore turned and began to walk away again. Hermione felt her mouth drop open in shock at how perfunctory his instructions were, at how casually the great wizard was treating this situation. Hermione knew that time travel was not an absurd concept in the wizarding world, but even so - shouldn't Dumbledore have been more alarmed to see her? Shouldn't he have interrogated her under Veritaserum, demanded that she reveal how she'd come and that she tell more about her own time?

But then Hermione realised that Professor Dumbledore was far too intelligent to behave that way. He would know that if she'd been sent here, it was because she'd already been here. Dumbledore would understand the inevitability associated with her massive jump in time. He would know better than to interfere.

And so the old man had calmly reinforced Hermione's cover story, told her there would be supplies for her up in Gryffindor Tower, and left it at that. Hermione stood, alone again, in the Entrance Hall for a good long while before she numbly padded up the marble staircase.

* * *

Hermione did not sleep that night. She lay in her small, lumpy bed in her little room and stared out the window into the rainy night.

Was she supposed to stop the ascent of Voldemort, she wondered? Was that what she was meant to do?

No. That couldn't be it, because if she'd stopped Voldemort from coming to power, he wouldn't have been there decades later to send her back. So had she failed in that mission the first time around, and now was being sent back to try again?

Then Hermione realised there was no 'first time around.' There was only this. This had already happened - at least in the mind of Voldemort from the 1990s. But to Hermione, it was an experience yet to pass.

Therefore, she thought, when Voldemort thought back to this time, to her being at Hogwarts in the 1940s, she had come with the knowledge of his later self. And yet, apparently, she'd done nothing to stop him. Why? And why had Snape and Dumbledore seemed so _resigned?_

Perhaps there was no 'mission.' Perhaps this simply _was_ , and it was something beyond anyone's control - it was as both Snape and Voldemort had said, and something Hermione had been told by Professor McGonagall prior to receiving her Time Turner. _No alteration of the past, nor deviation from reality, must occur, lest there be terrible consequences for a great many people._

Voldemort had seemed almost perplexed in the fact that he'd 'had' to send Hermione back in time, but it made sense now. His path to power could only happen if she was here.

 _Perhaps if I simply kill myself now, then Voldemort will never murder Harry's parents, and -_

Hermione cut that thought out of her head quickly. It was, of course, a ludicrous suggestion to make to herself. Perhaps, she thought again, there was no 'point' to her being here - she _had_ been, and therefore she _was._ It was an inevitable reality, an inescapable truth.

Feeling a strong stress headache coming on, Hermione rolled over and tried to sleep. It didn't work. The sun was up before she knew it.

Hermione pulled herself from the bed and stared at herself in the mirror over her small vanity. There was a wooden hairbrush there, and a few toiletries. Hermione aimed her wand at her head and sighed. She imagined 1940s-era hairstyles that she'd seen in old photographs (Muggle and wizarding alike).

" _Crispum_ ," Hermione murmured, and her hair formed itself into curls as she drew her wand around her head. Hermione used another charm to make her hair a bit less frizzy, and then she Conjured a few small clips to arrange her wide curls. She parted her hair deeply to the left side and tried to mimic the flowing shape she'd seen in photographs. It didn't work exactly as she'd planned, but it was close enough. It was certainly better than the messy, fluffy low ponytail in which she'd arrived. She would need to blend in if she was to avoid altering reality, to avoid hurting people.

Hermione made her way to the rickety old wardrobe that stood in the corner of the small bedroom and opened the doors. Inside, she found two black robes with the Gryffindor crest upon the chest. They looked familiar enough, except that the stitching was a bit more uneven than in 'her' time. The material felt a bit different, as well; it was thicker and a different weave.

There were several skirts, shirts, sleeveless pullover jumpers, and ties. Everything was cut just slightly differently than Hermione was used to. The skirts were longer and had a different weight; they would sit higher upon the waist and hang into a different shape than Hermione's school skirts had done. The starched white dress shirts had rounded Peter Pan collars instead of the sharp angular ones Hermione had worn, and the ties were in more muted shades of crimson and gold. The pullover jumpers felt a bit scratchy, but there would be a shirt between her skin and the jumper, so Hermione brushed this off. Once she'd put on her uniform pieces, she pulled on the pretty white cuffed socks that had been provided, as well as the sensible black shoes.

Looking again into the mirror, Hermione thought she still looked like herself. She was still an eighteen-year-old girl, a student in Gryffindor, carrying her vine wand. Yet she knew she was about to step out into a world that was not her own, where nobody knew who she was or why she was here. That thought made her queasy with nerves, and Hermione shut her eyes for a long moment, wishing sincerely that she had a Calming Draught to take before breakfast.

There were whispers and stares the very moment she entered the Great Hall. She'd waited long enough to go down to breakfast that everyone else was already seated, and as Hermione stepped through the large wooden doors into the Great Hall, she could hear reactions all about her.

"Who the devil is _that_?"

"Has someone Transfigured their appearance? I don't know that girl; do you?"

"Is there a new student?"

The confusion was evident among the students. Hermione squared her jaw and ignored the thumping of her heart, the way her breath quivered in her nostrils. She made her way resolutely to the Staff Table and was approached by Albus Dumbledore and the man she knew to be Headmaster Armando Dippet. She knew him from his Chocolate Frog card.

"Good morning, Sirs," Hermione said politely, her back to the crowd of curious onlookers. Most conversations had fallen silent as the students and staff watched the quiet interaction between Professors Dumbledore and Dippet and the new, mysterious girl in the Gryffindor robes.

"Miss Villeneuve," Professor Dippet said, giving Hermione a small nod. He flicked his eyes to Albus Dumbledore and then back to Hermione before saying rather sternly, "I was informed last night of your arrival. Welcome to Hogwarts. I'm very sorry for the loss of your family."

Hermione wasn't certain whether Professor Dippet knew the truth about her. It had been evident that Professor Dumbledore knew more than he was letting on - he had called her 'Miss Granger,' after all, and had told her he couldn't send her back to her own time. But she had no way of knowing what Professor Dumbledore had told Headmaster Dippet. Deciding it was best and safest to play along with her cover story, Hermione nodded and said,

"Thank you for receiving me as a transfer student, Headmaster Dippet. I promise I shall work hard in my courses. You shan't regret your hospitality toward me." She smiled rather weakly as Headmaster Dippet looked her up and down for a long moment, as if more information would simply ooze forth from her pores. When he got silence in return, Headmaster Dippet turned to the assembled students and staff. He pointed his wand at his throat and said,

" _Sonorus._ " Then, with his newly-amplified voice, Headmaster Dippet said, "My dear students and colleagues… this morning I have the distinct pleasure of introducing to you Miss Hermione Villeneuve. She is joining us as something of a refugee - you all know of the terrible effects of the ongoing Muggle war, and the wizarding world has not been entirely immune to these. Miss Villeneuve is grieving the loss of her family, and I trust you shall all join me in condolences toward her, as well as in granting her a truly warm welcome to our school."

Hermione turned round to face the Great Hall, and gulped heavily when she saw hundreds of eyes trained squarely upon her.

"Thank you, Headmaster," she said softly, and she got a curt little nod in response. Hermione started to walk down to the Gryffindor table to try to eat some breakfast, but she heard from behind her,

"Miss Villeneuve?" Hermione turned round again to see Professor Dumbledore holding out a parchment to her. "Your schedule, my dear. You've got Potions with Professor Slughorn just after breakfast, and then Transfiguration, which is my subject. I shall see you then."

"Yes. Thank you, Sir." Hermione took the parchment, her hand trembling fiercely, and nodded her thanks. She tried to pretend that there weren't dozens of people watching her make her way to the Gryffindor Table, and she sat far at the end, by herself.

Soon enough, conversations started back up among the students. Hermione took an apple from a bowl of fruit and ladled herself some porridge. She marveled at the abundance of food, given that it was wartime in the Muggle world. Apparently, wizards had not been subject to rationing the same way as Muggle civilians had been.

Hermione chewed her apple and stared at the Slytherin table. There was a large group of boys all huddled together in low conversation. They all glanced at her from time to time, and Hermione resolved not to shy away from their gazes. But she felt a stab of fear go through her the minute the boy in the middle of the group looked up at her.

Those eyes. She knew them straight away, even though they'd been red later in life, and had belonged to a different body. It was the _being_ behind the eyes, the soul there, that she recognised at once. She knew immediately that _this_ boy was Tom Marvolo Riddle - the future Lord Voldemort.

Hermione gasped quietly and lowered her head, staring into her bowl of porridge and feeling her heart thudding inside her chest.

"Miss Villeneuve?"

Hermione startled and looked up to see that one of her fellow Gryffindors had come down to her end of the table. He was a plump but friendly-looking boy, perhaps a fifth or sixth year student, and he thrust out his hand to introduce himself.

"Pleased to make your acquaintance. My name is Ladon Scamander. I am a Prefect here in Gryffindor… please, Miss Villeneuve, do let me know if there's anything we can do to make you feel at home here at Hogwarts."

He jerked his head down the table, and Hermione looked to see that there was a cluster of Gryffindors eyeing her rather nervously. One girl with pretty blond curls raised her hand a little and waved, flashing a small smile. Hermione felt a warmth rush through her chest; Gryffindors were apparently the same no matter what year it was.

She shook Ladon Scamander's hand, recognizing his name as the son of the great Newt Scamander. Hermione knew that Ladon would have a son much later in life, as a middle-aged man; that son would be called Rolf and had attended Hogwarts during Hermione's time. She smiled up at Ladon and said,

"Thank you very much for your kindness. I shall be delighted to know you all better."

A half hour later, Hermione was being ushered down flights of stairs to the Potions corridor by a gaggle of Gryffindor females. A red-headed girl called Maggie Prewett was saying quickly,

"Now, Miss Villeneuve - might I call you Hermione? Wonderful. You've studies Potions before, yes? Well, be on guard with Professor Slughorn. He's a brilliant potioneer, you see, but a bit barmy. You seem like a bright girl, though. I'm certain you'll do just fine. Oh, but… we've got Slytherin with us this class. And you know what that means, girls, don't you?"

Maggie flicked her eyebrows up, and the pretty blonde girl from the Great Hall sighed dreamily, "Tom. Tom Riddle. Oh, I never thought I'd pine after a Slytherin boy; my family's been Gryffindors for ages, but…"

She sighed again, sounding as though she'd been dosed with a love potion. The other girls did the same thing, and Hermione scowled a bit. They all admired the boy who would become Lord Voldemort? Hermione asked rather curiously,

"What's so great about this boy? This… Tom. Tom Riddle." She pretended as though she'd never heard the name before, pronouncing the name carefully and eyeing her fellow Gryffindors with raised eyebrows. The blonde girl, Betty Cattermole, giggled and said,

"Well, he's just brilliant. By far, the most intelligent boy in the school. He acts as though he's right minted - I mean to say, he carries himself as though he's quite high-class. But the rumour is that he goes back to an orphanage during the summer holidays."

"Poor Tom," sighed Maggie Prewett, and the brunette girl beside her nodded in agreement. Betty Cattermole continued,

"He's very charming, Hermione, but he doesn't seem interested in anyone. Can't say as why not, but you can go ahead and give him the try the rest of us have!" She grinned widely and giggled again, and Hermione felt quite ill at ease all of a sudden.

She had no intention of flirting with the boy who would grow up to be Lord Voldemort, but then she remembered the way he'd kissed her in Malfoy Manor the night before. He'd lowered his hideous grey face to hers and pushed his tongue between her lips, and he'd said,

' _Ah, yes. I remember_ _ **that**_ **,** _too.'_

Hermione shivered at bit as the group of girls approached the Potions classroom.

"Here we are!" Maggie Prewett said happily. "You've got your Potions text, yes? And all the supplies you need should be available to borrow in the room. I happen to know that Professor Slughorn keeps extra cauldrons for students, because I melted mine last year with a bad batch of _Elixir Ignis._ Well, we shall see you after lessons, Hermione, and take you up to the Transfiguration classroom!"

Hermione nodded and thanked the girls, and she began setting up a workstation at an empty table. Apparently, very little had changed in the past fifty-three years. She knew precisely where everything was in the classroom, and it looked exactly the same as it would decades later. A few bottles here and there were different, and she didn't recognize the pewter cauldron she borrowed, but the place even smelled the same. She'd just been here for Potions lessons the previous day - and fifty-three years in the future. It was almost surreal to be here, and have it feel so familiar, yet know that many years separated her realities in this place.

Hermione sighed, extracting her worn Potions text from the leather rucksack that had been delivered to her room in Gryffindor Tower. The other students had similar leather bags, and Hermione could only hope she was blending in to the era sufficiently.

There was a soft sound beside her, a delicate clearing of a throat, and Hermione jolted out of her reverie to see _him_ \- Tom Riddle - standing perhaps three feet from her. His eyes were cold and piercing in their darkness, but his lips were curled into the same mischievous and crooked smile Hermione had seen the previous night from Lord Voldemort.

"Hello," Hermione said in a hoarse whisper, and the crooked smile broadened a bit.

"Good morning, Miss… Villeneuve, is it? I'm Tom Riddle. Might I work beside you today?"

The boy raised his dark, sculpted eyebrows as Hermione stood in stupid silence. He waited patiently for her answer, and she finally swallowed heavily and nodded.

"Yes, of course," she said swiftly, shaking herself and taking a deep breath. The smirk on Tom Riddle's face grew downright merry, and Hermione scowled to herself. Let him interpret her nervousness however he pleased. She wasn't fawning over his handsome looks (though he was strikingly good-looking); she was frightened by his future self.

Hermione sat quietly in her chair, a tense silence developing between herself and Tom Riddle as the boy set up his own cauldron, scales, stirring stick, and textbook. Hermione glanced around the Potions classroom and saw several pairs of eyes upon her. The Gryffindor girls looked positively green with envy, whilst the Slytherin boys were scrutinizing her with skepticism. Finally, Tom Riddle cleared his throat again and asked,

"So you left France because of the Muggle war?"

Hermione nodded, letting out a shaky breath. "My parents were killed; my father was a Muggle and was French. My mother was English, a witch. I've come here to try to finish my education whilst getting away from the chaos of the Muggle conflict."

"Hmm." Riddle nodded and narrowed his eyes. He didn't apologise for the deaths of her parents, the way others had done. He appeared to be contemplating her story. He tipped his head up a little and turned back to his own work space. He opened his Potions text and murmured, "Welcome to Hogwarts, I suppose."

Hermione frowned at his unfriendly nature, and she huffed a bit as the door behind them opened. Professor Horace Slughorn waddled into the classroom, looking far younger than he'd done in Hermione's own time. He appeared to be perhaps only fifty years of age, and Hermione felt her eyes widen at the sight of his younger self. It was unnerving; she'd seen him as a very old man in this same room just a day previously.

"Good day, my bright and studious pupils!" Slughorn greeted the room jovially. Hermione smiled a bit, and Slughorn nodded deliberately at her. "Miss Villeneuve… it is splendid to have you with us. Now, if you'll all turn to where we were a few days ago… today we shall be furthering our examination of the dangerous and easily-abused Amortentia potion. I've got a cauldron of the stuff up here, and I wish for you all to inhale the steam, so that you might understand the raw power of this potion. Go on, then… line up, all of you! Thank you…"

There was a bustle in the room, then, as students scraped their chairs back and moved briskly to line up. Hermione had already smelled Amortentia, earlier in her sixth year, with Professor Slughorn himself. She felt no sense of urgency to make her way to the front of the line. Apparently, neither did Tom Riddle, and the two of them wound up at the very back of the queue. Hermione noticed that Riddle seemed abruptly ill-at-ease, shifting upon his feet and visibly gritting his teeth.

"I've smelled it before," Hermione mumbled over her shoulder to him. She had no idea why she was speaking to him - this was _Voldemort_ , after all - but there was something about the boy's sudden discomfort that made her want to reassure him. She smiled gently and said, "For me, it smelled of newly mown grass, and parchments, and toothpaste, and -"

She stopped, for she could not say, ' _And the distinct smell of Ronald Weasley's hair.'_

"Yes, well," Tom Riddle said rather sharply from behind her, as they moved up in the queue, "This potion isn't as simple as that. Not when it's used as a weapon. It might smell just fine, but the results are…"

He trailed off oddly then, and Hermione furrowed her brows at him. Tom Riddle quickly squared his jaw and snapped, "The queue is moving. Turn around."

Hermione frowned even more deeply and obeyed the sharp-tongued boy behind her. She tipped her head to watch as Maggie Prewett approached the cauldron.

"I smell roses, and French perfume, and leather and whisky," Maggie said, and then she was pulled gently away from the cauldron by Betty Cattermole. The two girls giggled as Betty stepped up and drew the steam in through her nostrils. After a long while, the girl said,

"Smoke from a fire, freshly laundered linens, strawberries…"

Maggie yanked on Betty's shoulder as the blonde girl leaned ever closer to the shimmering potion. They laughed as they stepped away. From behind Hermione, Tom Riddle scoffed,

"Ridiculous. To get so caught up in smells."

Hermione turned round and rather sneered at him, "Scent can be a strong emotional trigger for a great many people, Mr. Riddle. It is as you say - this potion could be used as a weapon."

Then she realised she should never, ever suggest to Tom Riddle, of all people, that anything had the potential to be a weapon. In his hands, she knew, everything would be a weapon.

"But you're probably right," she said quickly. "It's just a silly potion."

He didn't answer her. Finally, it was Hermione's turn to step up to the cauldron full of glimmering liquid and inhale the steam. She knew what she would smell. As she breathed in, Hermione waited for the scents of grass and parchment and toothpaste and Ron. But that wasn't what she smelled. Hermione frowned and took a step backward the moment that the steam hit her nostrils.

"What do you smell, my dear?" Professor Slughorn asked calmly, and Hermione balked. She couldn't tell him the truth. She couldn't tell him that the scent from the Amortentia was pure and strong, one she'd sensed for the first time the previous night.

When she'd been in Malfoy Manor the previous night, Lord Voldemort had stepped _awfully_ close to her, hovering over her and touching her face and finally kissing her. His aroma had been unmistakable and not entirely unpleasant. Hermione would have expected his ugly grey form to smell of death or something rotting, but that hadn't been it. He'd smelled of rosewood and the clean finish of soap. He'd smelled a bit of cinnamon, a surprisingly warm note for a man who'd seemed so cold. There had been a metallic overtone, there, too… an iron-like tang. The smell of Voldemort had haunted Hermione overnight just as much as the memory of his tongue in her mouth, and she had shivered at the thought of it.

Until it wafted into her body from the Amortentia potion.

She didn't smell grass, or parchment, or toothpaste, or Ron. No. She smelled _him_. She smelled rosewood, soap, cinnamon, and iron. _Him_. The most terrible wizard who had ever lived was the smell that came to her from Amortentia.

Hermione backed quickly away from the cauldron, trying to get out of the range of the steam. She accidentally backed straight into Tom Riddle - _him_ \- and she whirled over her shoulder, flashing him a terrified look of confusion.

"I'm sorry," she said quickly, watching as the boy smirked at her and straightened his robes. He'd reached his hands out to steady her, and as he released her, Hermione shivered with embarrassed chagrin.

"Miss Villeneuve?" Horace Slughorn said again, and Hermione turned around to face him. "What did you smell?"

She scrambled to come up with a lie. "Spearmint. Grass. Parchment."

Professor Slughorn smiled kindly and nodded, gesturing for Hermione to step aside. She gulped and did, watching carefully as Tom Riddle stepped up to the cauldron. He looked somewhat terrified of the potion, his dark eyes glinting with unmistakable fear. But he cleared his throat bravely and breathed in. Then he simply stood in silence over the cauldron and dragged his top teeth over his bottom lip.

The entire rest of the classroom was watching Tom Riddle's Amortentia experience with rapt attention. The girls, every last one, seemed to waiting to hear what it was that Tom Riddle liked. They would undoubtedly use the information to try to flirt more effectively with him. The boys all seemed mildly curious, as well. It was instantly evident to Hermione that Tom Riddle wielded all sorts of power over his fellow students, and indeed over the staff. Horace Slughorn asked,

"Well, Mr. Riddle?"

Tom stepped back from the cauldron and raised his face to Professor Slughorn. He let a stony, blank expression come over his features, and then he said dully,

"I do not smell anything."

Horace Slughorn furrowed his thick eyebrows and frowned. "Hmm…" he said softly. "Perhaps try again, my boy? It may be difficult to isolate aromas; they may seem like a jumble, but -"

"No." Tom Riddle shook his head firmly. "I smell nothing."

Professor Slughorn gave the boy an odd look, but finally nodded and said with a bit of unease, "I see… erm, class is dismissed. Please remember your essays on the use of Phoenix tears in potions are due in one week's time."

Hermione turned back to her table and began silently gathering up her belongings. She knew that Tom Riddle had lied to Professor Slughorn, and she suspected Slughorn knew that, too. Everyone smelled _something_ with Amortentia. Even people with no love for other humans smelled _something._ There was no chance that Tom Riddle had smelled _nothing_. What, then, Hermione wondered, had the boy sensed in the swirling steam? Whatever he'd smelled, it had frightened him, or at least made him feel vulnerable enough to lie and say he'd perceived nothing at all.

Hermione narrowed her eyes at the wizard beside her, the boy who would become Lord Voldemort. He was shoving his textbook back into his leather rucksack. Hermione breathed in deeply and sensed the subtle hints of his aroma. Rosewood, soap, cinnamon, and iron. It didn't trigger an emotional reaction in her, aside from fear since she'd smelled it in the cauldron. Tom Riddle turned without another word and stormed from the Potions classroom with his Slytherin cronies behind him. Hermione decided she was going to find out what it was that Tom Riddle had smelled… and why it was she'd smelled him.

* * *

Tom Marvolo Riddle preferred to be in control. Indeed, on the rare occasion that he felt out of control, or overpowered in any way, he was known to lash out with devastating consequences. He was never loud, never obvious. But if he felt threatened… well, the threat would be eradicated, thoroughly and surreptitiously.

Tom Marvolo Riddle had a complicated relationship with Amortentia. He himself had been conceived under the effects of a love potion, after all. He'd seen what love (or, at least, infatuation) could drive people to do. He'd seen what effects a love potion could have.

Tom Marvolo Riddle had had precisely no desire whatsoever to walk up to Slughorn's cauldron and smell the Amortentia inside. He feared knowing his weaknesses. He wasn't supposed to have any. But he'd done it, because he hadn't wanted to make a scene. He'd waltzed up to the front of the queue and breathed in the steam, just as every other student in the room had done. And then, he'd lied. He'd said there was no aroma, that he smelled nothing.

Of course, that was not true. _Everyone_ smelled _something_ when exposed to Amortentia… even the stone-hearted Tom Marvolo Riddle. He had, perhaps, expected to smell blood, or iron, or the cold chap of winter wind. He'd expected to smell _power_ \- whatever power smells like - or fame, or glory, or immortality. Whatever he'd smell would exemplify his success, Tom had convinced himself. But it hadn't. The potion had smelled strange and unnerving and beautiful.

Lilacs. Soft rain. Damp wood and lemon.

It had smelled _fresh_ , the Amortentia… fresh and lovely and positively intoxicating. And Tom Marvolo Riddle disliked the sensation of intoxication. It stole control from him, and that was simply unacceptable.

More alarmingly, the scent had been unmistakably _feminine._ It had not smelled of a woman's perfume, but of the pure and unadulterated scent of _woman_ \- more specifically, of an individual woman. Tom did not know who this person was, but he could plainly tell that the odours wafting from the Amortentia were the scent signature of a solitary human being.

And that was unacceptable. Because Tom Marvolo Riddle felt no affection for any other person. Relationships in his life were formed on the basis of usefulness, and were easily extinguished when they had served their purpose. Tom _used_ people; he did not _like_ people. And so a great pang of nauseated anxiety had struck him straight through upon smelling the Amortentia, because he had liked the scent. Very much.

That made him want to find the woman to whom the scent belonged. Not to dote upon her, or to smell the lilacs, rain, damp wood, and lemon straight from her body. No. Tom needed to find the host of the aroma and _destroy_ her, whoever she was. He could not be distracted by a female, certainly not one who smelled of the freshest spring morning.

So Tom had lied. He had looked at Slughorn and insisted he'd smelled nothing at all. Then, he'd made his way back to his desk and resolutely shoved his Potions text into his leather rucksack. He wanted to leave the classroom, to get away from the offending cauldron and the stupid old man who'd made him smell it.

And then, there it was. Lilacs. Soft rain. Damp wood and lemon.

Tom had frozen for a microsecond and flicked his dark eyes up to the mysterious young woman at the desk beside him. Hermione Villeneuve - the apparent recent arrival from France. Tom had difficulty believing her tale, believing what Dippet had said about her. It seemed… _off_. He could not quite place a finger upon the source of his skepticism, but there was something about Miss Villeneuve that made him suspicious, and curious.

He'd sat down beside her in Potions in order to get a better feel for her, in order to try to figure her out. Tom Riddle disliked it immensely when there was information he did not have. He would know the truth about this girl, but he would not be obvious in obtaining it.

When he'd stormed back to his desk and smelled it - the bundle of fresh scents - he'd realised with a stab of horror that it had been _her_ he'd smelled in the potion. But, of course, that made no sense. Tom did not even know Miss Villeneuve. How could hers be the scent that had reached his nostrils from the world's most powerful love potion? It was absurd. It was ridiculous. It was undeniable.

Tom had felt a fresh wave of rage crash over him as he'd closed his rucksack and walked briskly from the classroom with Mulciber, Avery, Lestrange, Rosier, and Nott in tow. He wanted to get away from Slughorn, from the accursed cauldron, from _her_... he needed to go somewhere where he was in control again.

"It's so strange, isn't it, Tom?" mused Rosier from behind him. Tom flicked his chin over his shoulder and scowled.

"What's strange, Rosier?"

"Well..." Rosier hesitated as he trotted behind Tom's long strides. The smaller boy, plump with strawberry blonde curls atop his head, cleared his throat and said, "It's _odd_ , isn't it? That you didn't smell anything in the Amortentia? Just goes to show you..."

He trailed off then, and Tom felt a creeping flush of anger working its way up his slender neck. He turned around and stopped, bringing his cronies to an abrupt halt. Tom narrowed his eyes down at Rosier and said in a soft, dangerous voice, "Just goes to show you _what_ , Rosier?"

Rosier gulped visibly, his eyes going wide at Tom Riddle's confrontational tone. The smaller boy took a small step backward and stammered, "It - it just goes to show you... that a silly thing like a love potion won't work on the most powerful wizards... that's all."

"Hmm." Tom turned back round, ignoring the way Rosier exchanged nervous glances with Avery and Nott. Tom resumed his brisk pace down the stairwell and out the side entrance of the castle. Slytherin had Herbology next, alongside Hufflepuff. Tom had resolved to move beyond the Amortentia incident, and he hoped that his sharp tone toward Rosier would shut up his 'friends' regarding the matter.

As he led the group of Slytherin boys out of the castle and toward the Herbology greenhouse, Tom heard a quiet conversation behind him between Avery and Lestrange.

"What do you think of the transfer student - Hermione, they said her name was? Hermione Villeneuve? A Muggle surname, but apparently her mum is a witch... unfortunate, what's happened to her. I should like to comfort her, perhaps..." Avery chuckled under his breath, and Raeburn Lestrange echoed his low laughter.

Tom Riddle pursed his lips, feeling cross for some reason he could not explain. He kept walking toward the Herbology greenhouse, gripping the strap of his leather rucksack in his slim fingers and grinding his teeth inside his mouth.

"She's not the prettiest girl in the school," Lestrange acknowledged behind Tom, "but I'd be interested. She's good enough. Seems vulnerable... I'd wager I could talk her into a nice romp to soothe her broken heart, eh?"

"Shall we make it a contest, then?" The stupid grin on Avery's face was audible in his question to Lestrange. "The first one to get Miss Villeneuve between his sheets wins ten Galleons from the other."

Lestrange laughed again and said, "All right, then, Avery. You've got yourself a wager. Ten galleons to the first one to show Miss Villeneuve a _warm Slytherin welcome_."

"I want in on that bet," said Nott. "She's not the best looker, but she's pretty enough to go for ten Galleons!"

Tom could contain his rage no longer. He whirled around his shoulder and flashed a murderous glare at his pack of lackies. "You will all stay away from Miss Villeneuve," he growled in a low sneer. "If any of you lays a hand upon her, you'll owe ten Galleons to _me_. Understand?"

The other boys stared up at Tom with confusion and mild fear in their eyes. Avery and Nott shrugged at one another, bewildered, and then Lestrange asked Tom,

"Is she yours already, mate? She's only been here a day. I didn't realise you'd claimed her for yourself." Lestrange raised his eyebrows, and Tom felt anger at being challenged.

"I have no interest in her," Tom said firmly, trying to convince himself as much as the other boys. "Not like that. I'm... _curious_ about her, about her story. I find myself doubting what Headmaster Dippet told us about her. I don't trust the girl, and I don't want any of you near her. Do you understand me?"

The others knew better than to question Tom. By this point in their schooling, Tom had proven time and again that his threats were not empty, that he had no fear or hesitation in exacting revenge or demonstrating might. So the pack of Slytherins all nodded emphatically at him, and Tom felt certain they'd forgotten all about their foolish wager.

During Herbology, he was distracted. Tom Marvolo Riddle thoroughly disliked feeling distracted. It made control slip from his fingers, and it was uncomfortable and dangerous. But Tom found himself quite unable to focus upon the Fire Orchids they were putting into pots. Tom collected some of the ash from one that burst into flames before it could be planted, and he Vanished the ash with a smooth swish of his wand.

"Oh, Mr. Riddle," said Professor Beery, walking quickly over from a group of Hufflepuffs he'd been assisting. "If that happens again, dear boy, do save the ash. There are myriad uses for Fire Orchid ash, in Potions and in magical medicine. I should hate to see it wasted by being Vanished."

Tom felt his cheeks colour, felt his ears ring with anger. He disliked being corrected, whether by other students or by staff members. It was critical that his image be strong and constant - that his peers interpret him to be a brilliant student without personal or academic flaw. Only then could he cultivate support among followers. Only then could he build his power.

As Professor Beery turned back round to the Hufflepuffs, Tom gritted his teeth once more and huffed quietly. He jammed a spade into a pot of soil and made room for the heated Fire Orchid beside him. He buried the bulb before the flower could ignite, and he covered it with soil and cast an _aguamenti_ charm to water it.

Tom stared at the successfully planted Fire Orchid before him and crossed his arms over his lean chest. He could not help but reflect upon his own odd behaviour today, and to contemplate what to do about it. He did not _know_ Miss Hermione Villeneuve, and yet in her single day at Hogwarts, she'd eaten her way into his consciousness like a terrible parasite.

It was _her_ scent that had intoxicated him as it drifted from the Amortentia cauldron. It was the sight of _her_ in the Potions classroom that rather magnetically drew him to the desk beside her. It was the idea of his Slytherin cronies competing to bed the girl that had driven him into a blind fury.

Precisely who _was_ this girl? Who did she think she was, to make Tom Marvolo Riddle feel as though he'd very abruptly and inexplicably gone mad? Tom felt anger toward her; he felt the need to destroy her and eliminate whatever threat she posed to his ascent. She was a distraction, and Tom had no idea why. The only solution was to eradicate her.

Five minutes prior to the end of lessons, Tom looked up, steeled his jaw, and said, "Professor Beery."

The small man turned round again from the Hufflepuffs, raising his eyebrows at Tom. "Yes, Mr. Riddle?"

"I feel rather unwell, all of a sudden. Might I pay a visit to the infirmary?"

"Oh! Of course, my dear boy. Do you require another student to accompany you? Are you quite all right?" Professor Beery sounded quite concerned, furrowing his grey eyebrows at Tom.

"I'll be fine, thank you." Tom shook his head. He gestured to the potted flower before him and said offhandedly, "I've planted a Fire Orchid here, Sir, should you require material to mark my lesson today."

"Oh... yes, thank you, Tom! Full marks, as usual. Off you go, then!"

Tom excused himself from the greenhouse and proceeded quickly back into the castle. Of course, he had no intention of going to the Hospital Wing. He was going straight into the castle's ground floor, to the Transfiguration classroom. He knew that the sixth-year Gryffindors would be there - that _she_ would be there - just finishing up their lessons.

Tom stood outside Dumbledore's classroom, listening to the gentle hum of conversation from inside. He paced back and forth in the corridor, which was not something he normally did. Tom Marvolo Riddle preferred not to be demonstrative with any sort of emotion, inlcuding nervousness.

Why was he nervous, anyway? Ingratiating himself to Miss Villeneuve should be easy enough, and then he could properly destroy her without making a big show of it. Nearly every girl at Hogwarts fawned over Tom. It was almost obnoxious, the way girls brought him little presents and stared at him in the Great Hall during meals, the way they murmured among themselves and giggled as he passed them in the corridors. Tom usually ignored the school's females, for they had the dangerous potential of being a distraction from his plans. Tom Riddle was not subject to adolescent whims the way his fellow students were. Occasionally, he could be bothered to flash a gaggle of pretty girls his trademark crooked smile, but only to keep them interested. Perhaps one day a few of them might prove useful, and Tom did not seek to make enemies of the entire female student body by being _too_ cold with them.

This - what he was about to do - would undoubtedly inject all the Hogwarts girls with a healthy dose of envy. Tom Riddle had never shown outward interest in any of them, and here comes Miss Villeneuve, fresh from France... and he was about to flirt rather openly with her. It would be easy, he told himself. She would blush and be flattered and feel lucky, and the other girls would gush and tell her they were quite jealous of Tom's attentions. Then Miss Villeneuve would feel safe with him; she would get complacent. Then Tom would strike, taking out the distraction that she was so that his plans could carry on properly.

Tom paused by an open cloister arch, knowing that he had only a minute or so before the Transfiguration students came pouring into the corridor. He sighed and swallowed heavily, trying not to think of what he'd smelled earlier that day in Potions. But when the image of _her_ face came into his mind, he was helpless.

Lilacs. Soft rain. Damp wood and lemon.

Tom growled a little and waved his wand carefully before him, muttering a few Conjuring spells. She truly was irritating, he pondered. Even if he didn't know her.

...

...

"Ugh! Today's lesson was truly vile. I've still got ectoplasm all over my robes," Maggie Prewett moaned as she and Betty Cattermole approached Hermione's desk. Professor Dumbledore had made them Conjure ectoplasm today, and though Hermione had successfully Vanished all of hers at the end of lessons, others still had sticky remnants of the stuff upon them. Hermione smiled warmly at the two Gryffindor girls and pointed her wand at Maggie's green-flecked robes.

" _Tergeo_ ," Hermione said softly, and the sticky mess was siphoned from Maggie's garment and disappeared into the tip of Hermione's wand.

"Thanks," Maggie said with a wide grin, and Hermione nodded as she packed up her rucksack.

"Would you like to sit with us at lunch, Hermione?" asked Betty Cattermole, pushing her pretty blonde curls from her face. Hermione felt a warm flush of gratitude come over her. If she was to be stuck in the past, with none of her loved ones about her, the very least the universe could do was to grant her some new friends. Hermione would never forget Harry and Ron, of course, nor give up on the idea of returning to them. But for now, she had resigned herself to the notion that she was _supposed_ to be here - that she _had_ to be here - and so she was grateful for the Gryffindor girls who were making the experience more pleasant.

"I would love to sit with you," Hermione affirmed. "Thank you, Betty."

The three girls headed out of the Transfiguration classroom and stepped into the corridor. They began chatting about a Charms assignment that had been recently assigned, and started to make their way to the Great Hall for lunch.

"Miss Villeneuve?"

Hermione whirled around at the sound of her cover name, and she startled when she realised who had called for her. Tom Riddle was leaning rather casually against the stone wall of the corridor, clutching a bundle of purple flowers in his left fist. He pushed himself off of the wall and stalked toward Hermione and the other Gryffindor girls, moving smoothly and silently.

Hermione swallowed and felt an odd flutter in her belly as he approached them. His thin, dark lips were curled into that crooked smile he so often wore, even later in life. It was a predatory sort of smile, and yet disarming in its charm. His dark brown eyes glinted as he flicked his gaze from Betty and Maggie to Hermione. Then he held out the little bouquet of flowers. Hermione recognised them at once as lilacs. She'd grown up with lilac bushes in her parents' garden, and the sight of the flowers made her eyes sting with unsolicited emotion.

She cautiously took the flowers and looked up into Tom Riddle's piercing stare. Beside her, Betty Cattermole gasped softly at the sight of the Slytherin 'it boy' handing over flowers to the new Gryffindor transfer.

"Erm... thank you, Mr. Riddle," Hermione said softly, trying to ignore the fact that his fingers had brushed hers as she took the bouquet from him.

"Please," he said, dipping his head reverently, "Call me Tom."

"Tom," Hermione repeated, nodding. "Thank you."

She wanted to scream. She wanted to call him ' _Voldemort,'_ to remind herself that he was a terrifying and murderous Dark wizard who would take and destroy countless lives. But she suddenly found herself having great difficulty reminding herself of that fact, because his clean and earthy scent was there again. It was as if she were still hovering over the cauldron of Amortentia.

Hermione took a step quickly back from him and held the lilacs up to her nose, hoping that their floral scent and some distance would erase the odd flush that had come over her.

' _I was much better-looking back then.'_ That was what Lord Voldemort - what _he_ \- had said to her just before sending her here. Hermione had been repulsed as the old, hideous wizard had kissed her. But, as it turned out, he hadn't been lying. He was, at this age, terribly handsome.

 _No._ Hermione shook her head to remind herself what he was. He was evil; he was wicked and destructive and terrible.

He was handsome, and he smelled very nice.

 _No._ Hermione refused to be ruled by a girlish attraction to him like the other female Hogwarts students of this age. And, anyway, there had to be some ulterior motive behind this bouquet of flowers. Hermione wasn't so delusional as to think herself 'pretty,' especially not compared to girls like Betty Cattermole. Why hadn't Tom Riddle handed the lilacs to Betty? Hermione had only been here for a day, and he was shoving flowers into her hands? Why?

"I wish to apologise for my rudeness toward you earlier. In Potions," Tom said, as if to answer Hermione's unspoken question. She furrowed her brows, thinking that he hadn't been _that_ rude... certainly not rude enough to require an apology gift.

"Oh. I'd forgotten all about it." Hermione smiled meekly up at him, and it occurred to her that he was very tall, and looked awfully good in his school robes. She angrily silenced that internal monologue and said in a flustered voice, "Just the same, thank you for the lovely flowers, Mr. Riddle. Erm... Tom. See you!"

She turned round and started to walk away from him. Betty Cattermole and Maggie Prewett dashed after her as she nearly trotted down the corridor.

"Hermione!" Betty hissed, sounding awestruck, "You need to go back to him! He gave you flowers, and you've just turned around and stormed off! Go back and let him flirt with you!"

"It's true, Hermione," Maggie Prewett acknowledged. "Tom Riddle _never_ flirts with girls. You need to take full advantage of his attentions!"

"I... I'm not interested in him," Hermione said firmly, shaking her head. Betty gasped again, just as she'd done when Tom had handed Hermione the lilacs.

" _What_?" she exclaimed shrilly. "Whyever not?"

"He's handsome enough," Hermione admitted as they approached the doors to the Great Hall, "but he seems rather full of himself. Rather unpleasant."

"He just gave you _flowers_!" Maggie said incredulously. "That doesn't seem 'unpleasant'! Quite the contrary, Hermione. He's positively charming."

"Thank you both for your romantic advice," Hermione said through gritted teeth, taking her place at the Gryffindor table, "but I think it best that Tom Riddle not get the idea that I'm attracted to him."

She pointed her wand at the bouquet of lilacs he'd given her and Vanished them into non-being. This brazen act elicited another horrified gasp from Betty Cattermole, but Hermione ignored her and set to eating her lunch in silence.

...

...

She had rebuffed him.

That had never happened before to Tom Riddle. Not that he'd tried too terribly hard to pursue a girl before, but... perhaps this was why. Rejection did not sit well with him. It made him stew with anger; it made him desire quick and impulsive revenge. No one - _no one_ \- categorically said 'no' to Tom Marvolo Riddle.

And, yet, that was essentially what Hermione had done. He'd handed the girl flowers and apoligised (rather unnecessarily) for his rude behaviour in Potions. That was a ruse, of course. He wasn't sorry for having snapped at her during lessons. But girls liked apologies. And they liked flowers.

Hermione, though, had actually stepped _away_ from him after she smelled the lilacs. She'd frowned and thanked him brusquely and turned away from him. She'd _walked away from him_ , without having waited for him to wish her a good day.

Now, as Tom sat at the Slytherin table for lunch, he could see her with the other Gryffindor girls. The lilacs were nowhere in sight. She'd gotten rid of them. She'd Vanished them, or thrown them into a courtyard somewhere. She had rejected his gift, and thereby rejected Tom Riddle.

He needed a new tactic. Clearly it would not work to ingratiate himself to her and try to get her romantically interested in him. Strange as it was that a female could reject him, the public display of that rejection was not something Tom Riddle could risk. No. He would have to corner her in a dark, quiet place and simply make her... disappear.

It would be messier, to be certain. It would cast doubt upon him, since she'd rather blatantly spurned him in the corridor. So Tom would have to wait to destroy her, until he could do so without arousing suspicions. Dumbledore would still blame him, to be certain, but there was no helping that. The old man had already proven himself five times over to be Tom's enemy.

And now this mysterious arrival from the Continent... she, too, was his enemy. No one told Tom Riddle 'no.'

...

...

After dinner that evening, Hermione made her way to the library. Professor Slughorn had excused her from the essay that was due the following week, owing to the fact that she had not been present when it had been assigned. However, Hermione thought it best that she dive into all her lessons head-first, and she'd informed Professor Slughorn of her intent to complete the assignment.

She was nearly done writing her essay when her eyelids began to feel heavy. Her head started feeling fuzzy with exhaustion, for the previous night had been utterly sleepless. Hermione foolishly put her head down onto her arms, resolving to rest for a few moments so that she could finish the last few paragraphs of her essay before leaving the library.

When she jolted into consciousness, she had no idea how long she'd been asleep. It had only felt like a brief moment, but when Hermione glanced at the grandfather clock along the wall, she saw that it was ten-thirty.

She swore under her breath and gathered up her rucksack, Banishing the library books back to their shelves. It was well past curfew, and the last thing Hermione needed right now was to be assigned detentions in this new existence.

She cast a hasty Disillusionment Charm upon herself and made her way from the library as silently as possible. She made her way out into the third-floor corridor and over to the spiral stone staircase in the corner. She began climbing, trying to keep her feet silent upon the stones. She was already near the landing of the fifth floor when she stopped dead in her tracks.

 _He_ was there, descending the stairs with his wand at his side. Tom Riddle was doing Prefect patrols of the corridor, and he was coming down the same staircase that Hermione was ascending.

She considered turning around and dashing back down the stairs, but he would hear her. She tried frantically to think of a way to make an escape, and was about to cast a Silencing Charm upon her own body before running back down.

" _Finite incantatem._ "

Hermione gasped as her body vibrated a bit and the Disillusionment Charm was lifted from her. She must have done a poor job casting it, she thought, if Tom Riddle had been able to sense her on the stairs. He stood with his wand jabbed out toward her and frowned deeply when her eyes met his. He quickly lowered his wand and cleared his throat.

"Miss Villeneuve," he acknowledged in a low rasp, "Perhaps you were not aware. Curfew is at nine o'clock. You are not to be about the corridors at this hour. But, because you Disillusioned yourself, something tells me you _did_ know that."

He eyed her with suspicion then, and Hermione sighed lightly, feeling defeated.

"I did know what time curfew was," she nodded. "I accidentally fell asleep at my desk in the library. I was just making my way back to Gryffindor Tower. Please, I beg you, do not report me for being out. It was a mistake, truly."

Tom Riddle cleared his throat again, bringing his fist up to his lips before saying delicately, "A mistake. Yes. Of course. Shall I escort you back to Gryffindor Tower, then?"

"I know the way," Hermione said quickly, feeling ill at ease in his presence. Then, realising she'd sounded ungrateful, she added, "Thank you anyway."

She suddenly found herself wanting to go back to the library to find a Charms book with a spell to eradicate her sense of smell. It was too much, the fact that every time he was near, she felt overwhelmed by his physical attributes. The boy had chiseled, beautiful features. He was angular and shadowy and very, very _masculine._ His cold, dark eyes bored into Hermione's in a manner that made her knees go weak quite against her will. And then there was the smell of him. Rosewood, soap, cinnamon, and iron. Hermione had never felt like a bloodhound before, but the past day had made her acutely aware of the troublesome capabilities of her nose.

She scratched at her scalp a bit and said lightly, "I'll just be off to bed, then. I do apologize, Mr. Riddle."

"Tom," he insisted again, just as he'd done earlier in the corridor when he'd given her a bouquet of lilacs. Hermione felt her cheeks go warm with humiliation as she remembered Vanishing his gift. It had been rude of her, she thought. No matter _who_ he was, it was patently rude to Vanish someone's gift into nonbeing.

"I am... erm..." Hermione felt compelled to say something about that, to apologise, but the words and the motivation were stuck in her throat. She coughed a little and tried again, "I am sorry for how I behaved earlier, in the corridor. For Vanishing the lilacs. It was untoward of me. I was... overwhelmed by your hospitality."

He looked almost amused as he stood a step above her, looming over her and casting his crooked smile downward. Tom crossed his arms and said, "I must admit, I've never had a gift so thoroughly rejected, Miss Villeneuve."

"Hermione," she corrected him, since he'd put her on a first-name basis with himself twice already.

"Hermione," he repeated with a single, slow nod. Then he stepped down until he was on the save level as her. He still hovered over her, simply by virtue of his height. The stair was awfully crowded with both of them upon it, and Hermione backed up until her back hit the stone wall behind her.

She suddenly felt nervous - _very_ nervous. This was _him_ ; this was Voldemort. Only, it wasn't. For every bit of cold calculation in his eyes, they were brown and not crimson. For all the too-handsome angles in his features, at the very least he was made of normal flesh here. He was _human_ , in a very disconcerting way. Hermione huffed a little and lowered her eyes from him.

"I'll just be off to bed, then," she whispered again, resolving to keep walking up the stairs and to leave this odd boy - this terrible Dark wizard - alone on the staircase.

There was a very long beat of silence, and then Hermione heard Tom Riddle breathe in very deeply and hold his breath, as if he were smelling her. She raised her eyes to his and saw an odd flash of energy in his gaze. His lips parted a bit and he swayed slightly where he stood, blinking quickly several times before saying,

"Yes. To bed with you, then."

"Goodbye, Tom. Thank you again for the lilacs. I am very sorry I Vanished them." Hermione turned and made to walk up the stairs, but then her arm was in his clutch, and he was squeezing, pulling her back to face him.

Hermione gasped loudly and furrowed her eyebrows. His grasp was too hard; he was hurting her and frightening her. She wrenched away from him and he let her go, but then there was icy electricity in his dark eyes as he leaned his face down a bit and demanded in a hiss,

"What are you playing at, then?"

"I beg your pardon?" Hermione squeaked. She realised she'd sounded weak and vulnerable, so she cleared her throat and tried to sound more confident as she tipped her chin up. "I'm not playing at anything, Mr. Riddle. I've come here to finish my education. I couldn't stay at Beauxbatons because -"

"That is not what I mean at all." Tom shook his head slowly, and Hermione felt a stab of fear at the intensity of his stare. When he spoke again, his voice was a whisper, rasping in the darkness of the stairwell. "I mean to ask you why it is that I smelled _you_ in the Amortentia today."

Hermione balked, nearly tumbling down the stairs as she took a step away from him. He reached out with lightning-fast reflexes and grabbed her shoulders, yanking her back up onto the step. He did not release her.

"I'm certain I have no idea what you're talking about." Hermione shook her head vigorously and tried to pull away again, but Tom tightened his hands on her shoulders until his fingertips dug painfully into her flesh. "Please. You're hurting me. Let me go."

He finally did, letting out a shaking breath through his flared nostrils as Hermione straightened before him. He shut his eyes for the briefest moment and seemed to be inhaling again.

 _Taking in my scent,_ Hermione realised with an audible gasp. She felt abruptly confused. Even if Tom Riddle _had_ sensed her in the Amortentia, why would he admit that to her? He did not seem like the type, now or in the future, to disclose any semblance of weakness on purpose. Why would he tell her that he'd been confronted with her aroma in the potion?

More importantly, why had she smelled him in return? What could it possibly mean that each of them had sensed the other in the Amortentia, even though they were scarcely acquainted?

"You told Slughorn you smelled grass, and parchment, and toothpaste," Tom reminded her. Hermione nodded, swallowing heavily, but Tom persisted, "You lied. What did you smell in the cauldron?"

"I... it _was_ as I said, Tom." Hermione felt properly frightened of him now, for he had her pinned against the wall again and was hovering over her with a threatening look in his dark eyes. "Freshly mown grass. Brand-new parchments. The mint toothpaste I've used for years."

"You're lying!" Tom hissed again, and he actually moved to raise his wand to Hermione's throat. She gulped and felt her eyes burn with tears. It wouldn't do any good to fight him; he was stronger and more powerful than her even at this age. Tom touched the tip of his wand to Hermione's skin, to the place just under her ear. "Tell me the truth, Hermione."

She wrenched her eyes shut and tipped her head back against the stone, resigning herself to the fact that he was probably going to murder her here, in this empty stone stairwell. " _You_ ," she whispered at last.

"What?" Tom pressed his wand more tightly against Hermione's neck after an interminable moment. Hermione could sense an odd tremble in his voice as he struggled to maintain all the control in their interaction. She looked up at him to see that his lips were crossly pursed, that his eyes flashed again with anger. "What do you mean?"

Hermione sighed heavily and struggled not to let him see her cry. "I smelled _you_ ," she said at last, her voice sounding defeated. She dragged her teeth over her lip in frustration. "Rosewood, deep and earthy. Soap - just the nice clean scent of soap. Cinnamon... much warmer than I'd think from a boy like you. And iron... metallic, sharp, tangy. I have no idea why it is that I smelled _you_. I do not even know you. But it's what came to me from the cauldron, and I can sense it when you're near me."

His wand was lowered from her neck then, and Tom Riddle stood before her with his mouth open in unmasked shock. The silence between them seemed to last forever, getting heavier and more oppressive by the second. Finally, Tom coughed lightly and asked,

"Can you sense it now?"

"Yes," Hermione admitted, nodding reluctantly. It wasn't a lie. As he loomed over her, the warm, earthy, masculine scent of him washed over her like an intoxicating wave. She remembered suddenly that he'd admitted to sensing her in the cauldron, and she impulsively asked, "What do I smell like, Tom? When you recognized me in the potion... what was it?"

His tongue peeked out from his open mouth, carefully licking his bottom lip as he blinked a few times and appeared to carefully consider what to say. "The warm rain of a late spring morning," he murmured at last, his voice a low and sensual rumble. "The smell of the trees, of fallen logs, after that rain has fallen upon them. The crisp scent of lemon. And..." He leaned down slowly, stopping only when his face was a few inches from Hermione's. "Lilacs."

Hermione gasped a little, thinking back to the sight of him in the corridor, thrusting out a bouquet of lilacs at her. She shut her eyes and shook her head, her hair grinding into the stone wall behind her.

 _No, no, no._ She couldn't be physically attracted to this boy. This was _Voldemort_ , or, at least, it was the boy who would become Voldemort. He was evil, she told herself again. He was wicked and murderous and terrible.

But she'd sensed him in the Amortentia, and he'd sensed her. _Why?_

Hermione felt very angry all of a sudden. She was enraged with herself, for being so vulnerable to her physical senses. She was angry with Professor Snape for kidnapping her and taking her to Voldemort. To _him_ , to a different incarnation of the boy who stood before her smelling like everything wonderful and masculine. Hermione cracked her eyes open to see that he was still only a scant few inches away. His beautiful dark gaze bored into hers with a frightening intensity. His lips were still parted in surprise, and his breath shook in little shallow huffs from his narrow, sculpted nose.

He did not look at all in control of himself, and Hermione had no idea why Tom Riddle (of all people) had suddenly succumbed to his own attractions. And, anyway, why on Earth was he attracted to _her_?

"I'm going to bed," she said resolutely, realising it was at least the third time she'd announced that fact. And yet, here she still was, standing in the stairs, her exit blocked by his wiry frame above her.

Tom squared his jaw as if bracing himself for pain, and then he stood upright and stepped down and away from Hermione. He nodded, tipping his chin up as if he'd suddenly shaken himself from his intoxication.

"See to it that you do not break curfew again, Hermione," he said, his voice stilted and formal. He did not look at her, but frowned and cast his eyes down the staircase. "I do not want to find you alone in a corridor again late at night... I would have to deduct points or refer you for detention."

"Yes. Of course. It won't happen again." Hermione felt her heart thudding in her chest with a mix of fear and confusion, and she crab-stepped sideways up the stairs while keeping her eyes trained on Tom Riddle. "Goodnight, then."

"Goodnight." He snapped his robes into place and cleared his throat imperiously, heading briskly down the staircase.


	2. Chapter 2

It seemed to Tom Riddle as though his life had quickly devolved into a farce. One moment he was completely in control, entirely confident in the power he wielded over others. The next moment he'd been intoxicated by a mortal female. He'd been reduced to his basest human instincts, and the thought troubled and enraged him.

At breakfast the following day, he stabbed angrily at his eggs with a fork, simmering in crackling silence at the Slytherin table. His 'friends' were filtering into the Great Hall one by one; Tom had been particularly early this morning for the morning meal. He'd found himself rather unable to sleep the previous night and had taken an early (long, cold) shower. He was one of the first students in the Great Hall this morning.

Of course, she was early, as well. Hermione plodded into the Great Hall without any of her new Gryffindor friends. She did not so much as look at Tom as she set her rucksack down upon her table and poured herself a glass of pumpkin juice.

She was tarted up this morning, Tom noticed at once. She had red lipstick on, and her hair was smoother and better arranged into wide curls.

No, Tom thought, jabbing his fork onto his plate so hard that it squeaked hideously. She isn't the most beautiful girl in the school. But she is properly distracting.

He glared at her as she pulled out a textbook from her bag and opened it. She began eating an apple, and Tom found himself utterly transfixed. The way her painted red lips opened slowly as she read her book, the way her jaw moved as she chewed, the way she used the back of her hand to wipe away a bit of juice from her chin. Every move she made was calculated, he knew. She could tell he was watching her; she didn't seem like a fool. But she pretended not to see him - she ignored him - and that made Tom more angry than ever.

He seethed alone at the Slytherin table until Avery, Rosier, and Lestrange came ambling into the Great Hall. They surrounded him and sat down, and Tom suddenly felt very stifled by their presence. He shifted a bit in his seat but said nothing, ignoring the way Avery and Rosier were laughing at a crude joke told by Lestrange.

"All right, there, Tom?" Avery asked after a while. There was caution in the other boy's voice, and Tom turned his face to him with a warning in his gaze.

"I'm fine," he said through clenched teeth. He made it quite clear that he did not wish to discuss his foul mood, and the other boys managed to awkwardly move their conversation on to the upcoming Quidditch match between Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff.

"There's a girl on the Ravenclaw team, you know," Avery was saying. "Wonder if she'll wear her skirt for the match? I'd love to see her go tumbling from her broom, arse over face, just in case that skirt were to flip up and give us a show."

The boys chortled, but Tom said nothing. He never responded to childish talk like that; he was above such ridiculous thoughts and words. He was above the libido-driven lifestyles led by his gormless peers.

Wasn't he?

Tom stared beyond plump-faced Rosier, his dark eyes locking onto Hermione. She wasn't alone anymore; a few Gryffindor girls and the boy Tom recognised as Ladon Scamander were surrounding her. She was engaged in a lively conversation with her House-mates. Tom watched as Ladon Scamander said something to Hermione, causing her face to light up and break out into mirthful laughter.

An ugly coil of jealousy appeared somewhere below Tom's stomach then. Ladon Scamander was the son of renowned Magizoologist Newton Scamander. The boy came from money, and prestige. He was rather pimple-faced and simple-looking, but he'd had a pretty girlfriend the previous year. The girl, a Hufflepuff, had been drawn to Ladon's exciting home life and the promise of wealth if she married him after graduation. The relationship hadn't worked out, Tom knew, but now it seemed the boy was pursuing the new arrival. Hermione.

The other Gryffindor girls seemed to be wandering off into their own conversation, and Tom watched as Hermione and Ladon Scamander began to banter merrily back and forth. Finally, Ladon pulled a parchment from his bag and held it out to Hermione. She giggled when she read whatever was on the paper, rocking back and forth upon the bench and nodding at Ladon.

Tom was suddenly overcome with anger, with envy, with all sorts of sensations that made him feel weak and vulnerable. He hated Hermione Villeneuve in that instant. He hated the way her red lipstick drew attention to her pretty little mouth. He hated the happy gleam in her chestnut eyes. He hated the tinkling sound of her laughter, which carried all the way to the Slytherin table.

He despised Hermione for having appeared in the stairwell the previous night. Tom had managed to push her from his mind long enough to do nearly his entire patrol, but then - poof - there she was. In a confined space. A dark space. An isolated space.

Tom had briefly thought that the circumstances were perfect to destroy her, that a deserted staircase after curfew was just the sort of encounter he'd wanted in order to eliminate her as a distraction.

But then he'd been taunted, once again, by her delicious signature aroma, this time coming straight from her body. Why could he sense her so strongly, he wondered? He was a talented wizard, but he had a perfectly normal sense of smell. And, yet, even standing a foot away from her, he was overcome with the fresh smell of spring. It was magnetic; it was intoxicating.

He'd wanted her, last night in the stairwell. That realisation had made Tom angry and uneasy. He'd wanted to touch his lips to hers and see whether she tasted as delicious as she smelled. He'd wanted to pull up the hem of her skirt and do awful things to - with - her. Things he'd never particularly wanted before.

For doing that to him, Tom Riddle decided that he hated this new arrival. Hermione. He hated her.

No one ever told Tom Riddle 'no.' No one ever rejected him. He would not allow her to be the first. Tom watched as Ladon Scamander elicited ever more glee out of Hermione, and fury boiled up inside his chest until he felt tingling come over his entire form. Tom rose slowly to his feet and ignored the questioning gazes of his 'friends.' He walked smoothly around the Slytherin table and made his way over to the Gryffindors.

No one ever told Tom Riddle 'no.' She would not be the first.

* * *

Ladon Scamander, as it turned out, had a terribly amusing sense of humour. Hermione had spent the past twenty minutes or so listening to Ladon relate some tales from his childhood, clearly embellished to make them more humourous. He told Hermione of the time he and his father Newt had gone to Romania to research a book on dragons. Ladon's father had managed to singe off every hair upon his head with dragon fire, Ladon said.

"So I said to him, 'Dad, at least you've lost your receding hairline!'"

Hermione giggled at Ladon across the Gryffindor table. Her merriment was quickly subdued when she noticed a tall, lean figure gliding smoothly toward her.

"Oh, no," she moaned softly, lowering her eyes to her bowl of porridge.

"What is it?" Ladon Scamander asked with warm concern. Then he turned over his shoulder and saw Tom Riddle looming over him. "Oh. Good morning, Riddle."

Hermione flicked her eyes up mutely to Tom Riddle, who was eyeing her just as he'd been doing for nearly an hour now. They'd both been early to breakfast, and Hermione had scarcely felt Tom Riddle's eyes leave her since she'd arrived. Apparently, he had not been as amused by Ladon Scamander as Hermione had been.

"May I sit here, Scamander?" Tom asked tightly, gesturing to the spot opposite Hermione… the spot where Ladon currently sat.

"Erm… yeah, of course," Ladon mumbled, and he picked up his porridge and pumpkin juice and rose from the bench. "See you, Hermione."

Hermione was properly cross that Tom Riddle was able to intimidate other students with such a simple request. She was cross, and she was impressed. She did not want to be impressed by Tom Riddle. She scowled at her glass of pumpkin juice as Tom slipped elegantly onto the bench opposite her. He put an apple onto a plate before him and silently flicked his wand a few times. Hermione watched as the apple began to neatly slice itself, and then the core Vanished.

She frowned ever more deeply. She did not want to be impressed by Tom Riddle.

"Good morning, Hermione," Tom said in a low murmur. He picked up an apple slice and put it between his lips, chewing the fruit thoughtfully. Hermione watched him eat, watched him swallow. His Adam's Apple bobbed in his slender throat when he did. She looked away again, seeing spots in front of her eyes.

"Is there something you need, Tom?" Hermione whispered desperately. A few feet away, she knew, Betty and Maggie were paying rapt attention, though they were trying to keep their eyes trained upon their food. Tom clearly noticed this as well; he shot a little smirk toward the other girls as he ate another apple slice.

"I trust you found your way back to Gryffindor Tower last night?" he asked smoothly, and Hermione furrowed her strong brows at him.

"No," she said sardonically, "I never did. It's too bad you didn't escort me, Tom. I wound up spending the entire night sleeping at the foot of a statue in the sixth-floor corridor."

Tom's jaw stopped chewing for a moment, and his eyes glittered strangely at Hermione. His crooked smile disappeared, and then he swallowed his bite before saying, "Sarcasm is rather unbecoming upon you, Hermione."

"I find I do not much care what is 'unbecoming,'" Hermione hissed at him. Then, feeling properly cross with his presence, she demanded, "Why are you here? Why are you sitting at the Gryffindor table, eating an apple? Why have you been staring at me for nearly an hour? What do you want, Riddle?"

His face was stony and still for a long moment, and Hermione watched Betty's face look up curiously from beside her. Betty's face snapped back down again when Tom mumbled,

"I merely wish to better make your acquaintance, Miss Villeneuve."

"Why?" Hermione narrowed her eyes at him, and she heard him huff out a frustrated breath. He pinched his lips into a straight line, and then he spoke again. His voice sounded annoyed, as if Hermione was pushing him too far. She wondered absently if she was; he was obviously dangerous.

"Because I find you… intriguing. I should like it very much if you were to join me for a walk across the Viaduct and down to the lake. This afternoon, after Defence Against the Dark Arts."

Hermione pondered his offer. It seemed very unwise, she thought, to go wandering the grounds with the boy who would become Lord Voldemort. To do so alone seemed downright suicidal. She took a sip of her pumpkin juice and touched her lips delicately with a napkin. "No, thank you," she said.

Maggie Prewett gasped a bit from a few feet away, and Tom Riddle shot her an irritated glare. Then he turned his eyes back to Hermione. There was a heat there that she had not seen yet from him. He seemed truly riled now that she'd explicitly turned him down. He cleared his throat and leaned across the table a bit.

"Why not?"

Hermione met his eyes for a moment, feeling the same odd flutter in her stomach that she'd had the previous day. "I do not believe it is… proper," she said, grasping for a reason. Tom squinted at her with a look of pure loathing, and then Hermione felt afraid of him again. She cleared her throat rather loudly. "Well, I'm off to Arithmancy. Good day, Mr. Riddle."

She packed up her bag and walked quickly from the Great Hall, wondering if she'd made a terrible and dangerous mistake in rejecting him.

* * *

He should not have ever stepped foot over to the Gryffindor Table, Tom thought as he stormed down the empty corridor to the Charms classroom. He'd left the Great Hall early, before the rest of his peers, for he was unwilling to sit and rehash his conversation with Hermione at the Slytherin table.

He knew full well that Hermione had no interest in him. She was afraid of him. That was plain enough. And wasn't that what Tom wanted - to be feared?

Not by her, an odd voice in the back of his head whispered. Tom scowled and whipped out his wand, pointing it at a window as he stalked down the empty corridor.

"Reducto!" he whispered, and a wild jet of blue light burst forth from his wand. It crashed into the stained-glass window, and then there was a loud explosion as the glass shattered into a million miniscule pieces.

Tom kept walking down the corridor, feeling properly annoyed now. She had rejected him - twice - but he felt more strongly than ever that he wished to pursue her. Why? What on Earth was so special about her? She was rather plain in appearance, and he knew virtually nothing of her personality. And, anyway, even if she had been pretty, or funny, or smart, Tom wouldn't have cared.

He used people. He did not like people.

But he wanted Hermione, and that made him very angry indeed.

Four more windows were smashed before Tom reached the Charms classroom.

* * *

Hermione sat at her Arithmancy desk, scribbling away furiously. She rather liked Professor Rolle Pascal, a wizened old man in overlarge robes. The old wizard seemed kindly and helpful, unlike. Professor Vector from Hermione's own time. Professor Vector had been more than competent in the subject of Arithmancy, but had usually been rather unsympathetic when students experienced difficulty in her lessons.

"Miss Villeneuve… Mr. Scamander. Have you found anything of note?" Professor Pascal wheezed out his question, and Hermione met his kind, pale eyes. Beside her, Ladon Scamander finished writing. He was the only other sixth-year Gryffindor in this class; Maggie Prewett and Betty Cattermole were in Divination this period.

"I've just finished running the numbers for my First Pinnacle, Sir," Hermione said matter-of-factly. She pushed her parchment across the desk toward Professor Pascal. The old man nodded and made a small noise of approval as he looked over Hermione's work. Hermione found herself smiling proudly as Professor Pascal said,

"Impeccable craftsmanship with the numbers, Miss Villeneuve. However, I believe you started with an inaccurate birth date? Perhaps a mere typographical error. I do not believe this prediction fits you at all, my dear. What date did you say you were born?"

Hermione felt a cold flush through her veins, felt her lips go numb, and she said in a dull voice, "The nineteenth of September, 1926. Sir."

"Hmm…" Professor Pascal shook his head, looking a bit befuddled. "Are you entirely certain your birth year is not an odd number, my dear? I must say, this prediction simply makes no sense for you. I can not see as it would be accurate. However, if the birth year were odd, then…"

"Oh, yes!" Hermione nodded vigorously. Too vigorously, she thought after a moment, and she stopped her head from moving. She smiled broadly, apologetically, and took back the parchment. "I… It was 1927. That's right. I'd forgotten that my parents put me into school a year early, Sir. I apologise for the error…"

She quickly Vanished her work on the parchment and started over. Professor Pascal stood and patiently waited for her to redo her work. Beside her, Ladon Scamander frowned. Hermione could scarcely blame him. What sort of person misremembered their birth year?

At last, she handed the parchment back to Professor Pascal. This time, he nodded with a small smile. "Ah, yes," he said. "Your First Pinnacle is now much more than blathering nonsense, as the other one was. You, my dear, are destined for greatness. But you must cast aside old beliefs, turn away from those you once called your friends, and embrace the change surrounding you. You must summon all your inner fortitude to do so, but if you can accept the challenge… then you will be great, my dear."

Hermione mutely took the parchment back from Professor Pascal. She stared down at the paper for a long while in silence while the old teacher helped Ladon Scamander with his work.

The rest of the day flew by in a whirlwind of activity. Hermione had a very busy schedule today - Arithmancy and Charms before lunch, followed by Defence Against the Dark Arts. She had a break in the afternoon, but then would need to spend hours this evening working on a Transfiguration project that had been assigned the previous day.

Hermione had almost forgotten that her Defence course was a Gryffindor/Slytherin pairing. She wandered into the classroom with Maggie and Betty, and the three girls seated themselves near one another and continued chatting.

Galatea Merrythought, the Defence professor, waddled into the classroom from the rear. She was a fat old woman with a squished face, but her countenance seemed cheerful and her eyes twinkled in much the same manner as Dumbledore's.

"Good afternoon," she greeted the class, and the students responded in kind. Professor Merrythought cast her eyes about the room and said happily, "Today we shall continue our work with nonverball spells. I wish for you to work in pairs and attempt to Disarm your opponent with a silent swirl of your wand. Remember that you must incant the spell inside your mind with great force and fervour… Expelliarmus is the incantation, of course. Now. I am well aware of the ancient and senseless enmity between Houses Gryffindor and Slytherin, but today I wish for you to find a partner from the opposite House. It's high time all Hogwarts students learned to work well together. So… Gryffindors, find a Slytherin, and vice versa. Get to work, please!"

There was much grumbling then as chairs were slid away from desks and students rose to their feet. Hermione groaned softly as she realised that the Slytherins were here. She turned round and there he was. Him. Tom Riddle, with his cronies all around him. Immediately, he was rushed by three Gryffindor girls, including Betty and Maggie. Betty got there first. She batted her pretty eyelashes up at Tom and simpered,

"Mr. Riddle, I'd be honoured if you'd duel with me today!"

But Tom ignored Betty entirely, his dark eyes trained upon Hermione. She felt a stab of discomfort through her stomach at the intensity of his stare. She wished he wouldn't reject other girls to try to pursue her. Didn't he realise that he was only making her life more difficult by sowing enmity between her and the other female students?

Of course he did, she thought angrily. Of course he realised that, and he liked it. He relished it. She clenched her fists at her sides when Tom flicked his eyes to Betty and away again.

"I'm very sorry, Miss Cattermole," he said smoothly, "but I was hoping to work with Miss Villeneuve today."

"Oh… of course," Betty said quietly, sounding profoundly disappointed. But Hermione took a deep, trembling breath and gathered her courage. She cast her eyes upon the boy to Tom Riddle's right - Rosier, she thought - and said,

"Mr. Rosier, would you be so kind as to practise the Disarming Spell with me?"

She saw out of her peripheral vision the way Tom reacted. A black flash came over his glittering eyes, and his sharp cheekbones coloured a deep scarlet. His reaction lasted only a moment, and then he said sharply,

"On second thought, Miss Cattermole… I accept your offer. Shall we?" He extended his arm to Betty without looking at her, and the smitted blonde girl giggled a little as she laced her arm beneath Tom's elbow. Hermione felt an inexplicable surge of emotion at the sight of Tom walking away, arm-in-arm with Betty Cattermole.

Jealousy. She'd felt it before in her life, and it was unmistakable now. She was jealous of the sight, of Tom openly accepting the affections of a different girl. Why?They were practically strangers. Moreover, they didn't seem to like one another very much.

Hermione grimaced, feeling a bit queasy as the strawberry blonde Rosier approached her cautiously.

"Erm… so, let's begin, then, shall we?" the boy asked, and Hermione nodded absently.

She stood about ten paces from Rosier and pointed her wand at him. He did the same, and he said, "I'll begin."

Hermione frowned. Weren't boys of this time supposed to be chivalrous? Whatever happened to 'ladies first'? But she nodded her consent and prepared to be Disarmed by Rosier's nonverbal spell.

Rosier jabbed his wand into the air, but nothing happened. He pursed his lips, and Hermione tried not to laugh at his utter failure.

"Say the incantation quite loudly in your mind," she advised him, for she was very good with nonverbal magic. "Your inner voice, your thoughts, should be screaming the spell."

"Yes. I know. Thank you." Rosier narrowed his pale eyes at Hermione, and she felt an uneasy shiver go down her spine at the way he'd bristled to her help. She just nodded and waited for his second attempt.

After a long while, Rosier jabbed his wand forward again. This time, a little flash of white appeared at the tip of his wand and flew rather sluggishly through the air toward Hermione. She lost her grip on her wand, as if it were suddenly very slippery, and the wand clattered to the floor. But it was, without question, the weakest Disarming Spell Hermione had ever seen. She bent down to pick up her wand. When she rose, Rosier looked quite pleased with himself.

"See?" the boy said. "Not so difficult."

Hermione sighed, suddenly rather overcome with a desire to show off her skills. It was stupid to do so, she knew. It was inflammatory and confrontational. But she couldn't help herself. She raised her wand toward Rosier and silenced her mind. Then she swirled her wand, and forced all of her thoughts to silently shriek, 'EXPELLIARMUS!'

A great burst of red light shot out of Hermione's vine wand, with so much force that she skidded backward a bit upon the classroom floor. The red burst of light smashed into Rosier, knocking him clear off the floor so that he landed with an 'oof!' upon the ground. His wand flew into the air, spiraling away in an elegant arc.

The classroom had suddenly gone quiet and still as everyone had stopped and given their attention to the bright red flash, to the sight of Rosier tumbling to the ground and his wand soaring through the room.

"Oh, well done, Miss Villeneuve. Well done, indeed! I see that Beauxbatons Academy is not failing its students in duelling instruction, eh?" Professor Merrythought clapped her hands a few times and smiled broadly at Hermione. "Now, all of the rest of you… I'd like to see similar results. Keep trying, if you please!"

The rest of the students resumed their duelling, but there were only occasional white flashes as the occasional person managed a weak nonverbal Disarming Spell. Rosier was unable to replicate even his weakly successful attempt, but Hermione indulged him and let him keep trying.

About ten feet away, there was a small white flash from Betty's wand, and she smiled rather triumphantly as Tom Riddle's wand clattered to the floor. He crouched with a smooth motion to pick it up. Hermione, feeling very distracted indeed, watched as Tom said in a sugary tone,

"Good work, Miss Cattermole. Now it's my turn."

Betty looked somewhat terrified. Everyone knew Tom Riddle to be a brilliant student. He didn't let their expectations down. A huge red jet of light flew from his wand after he flicked it at Betty with a bored expression on his face. Betty toppled to the ground and her wand flew directly at Tom.

Tom reached out into the air and deftly caught the flying wand, and he narrowed his eyes at Betty Cattermole, who was lying nearly-unconscious upon the stone floor. Once again, the classroom went silent, and this time Professor Merrythought came dashing over.

"Are you all right, Miss Cattermole?" she asked with a hint of concern. Betty slowly sat up, looking dazed and tired.

"I… I'm fine," she insisted, but her pretty cheeks coloured scarlet with embarrassment. She smiled nervously up at the handsome boy opposite her. "Well done, Tom."

"Miss Villeneuve and Mr. Riddle," Professor Merrythought said abruptly, "Your spells are much too strong for your current matches, I should think. It isn't terribly productive for you or for your partners. Miss Cattermole, why don't you work with Mr. Rosier? And Mr. Riddle, you work with Miss Villeneuve. I'd like the two of you to practise nonverbally Shielding yourselves from one another's Disarming Charms. Thank you!"

Hermione's mouth dropped open in horrified surprise as Rosier switched places with Tom Riddle. He stood across the room from her and gave her his trademark crooked smile.

"Right," he said in a low, sibilant murmur. "Go ahead, Hermione. I'm ready."

Yes, I'll bet you're ready, Hermione thought irritably. She cast the strongest Disarming Charm she possibly could at Tom, and her wand exploded with red light.

But he merely flicked his wand at the light, cocking up an eyebrow at Hermione as he did. The red light dissolved instantly, and Tom's wand was still securely in his hand. He laughed, low and in the back of his throat, and the sound of his laughter enraged Hermione. It also sent a terrible shock of want through her body, a feeling she'd never quite experienced before. Hermione shifted uncomfortably upon her feet, horrified by her physical reaction to Tom's magical prowess.

Suddenly he was walking toward her, closing the gap between them one pace at a time. Hermione lowered her wand and swallowed hard, trying not to let his delicious aroma fill her nostrils as he neared. She lowered her eyes, for she knew that if she stared up at him, the unsolicited physical reaction would start again.

"I shall make a deal with you, Hermione," she heard Tom say, when he hovered above her only a few feet away. His voice was melodious and silky as he spoke, and Hermione felt her hand shake as she clutched her wand.

"A deal?" she repeated numbly, and then Tom laughed again in his beautiful low rumble.

"Indeed. If you can successfully block my Disarming Charm, then I shall leave you alone forever. We shall forget all about who sensed what in Potions yesterday. But if you are unable to block my spell, then you must accompany me on that walk I asked you about at breakfast. Right after this lesson. Do we have a deal?"

Hermione felt her ears go hot. They rang loudly. She was dizzy with confusion. She just nodded, still not looking at Tom. He returned to his side of the classroom, and Hermione sighed as she looked up at him.

She didn't even have time to raise her wand properly, much less cast a solid Shield Charm, before his wand was pushing a bright burst of red at her. The light moved like a bolt of lightning across the room, and before Hermione could react, her wand was gone, soaring away like an inanimate bird. She was pushed backward by the force of Tom's spell, and she stumbled and tried to stand. It didn't work; she collapsed onto her bottom on the stone floor and crashed into a chair painfully.

She was still disentangling herself from the furniture when Tom's slender fingers appeared before her. He was holding out his hand to help her stand. Hermione didn't take it, so Tom smoothly retracted his hand and brushed absently at his robes as Hermione helped herself up.

"That wasn't very fair," she complained in a growl. "You didn't even give me time to put my wand up."

"If there is one thing magic has taught me, Hermione, it's that life is not fair." Tom smirked at her. "I hope you're wearing sensible shoes for walking."

* * *

They were halfway across the Viaduct before Hermione said a word to Tom. They'd walked all the way here in stilted, uncomfortable silence, but finally Hermione stopped walking and let out an indignant sigh. Tom stopped his own feet and turned to look at her expectantly. He waited for her to speak. When she did, he was rather unsurprised with the questions she asked. It didn't make them any easier to answer.

"Why are you pursuing, Tom?"

Her voice wasn't shaking. She wasn't afraid. She sounded angry. Tom cleared his throat and said delicately,

"Honestly, Hermione… I have no idea."

"You do not seem like the type to do things without a reason," Hermione argued. She leaned back against the post between two gothic windows on the viaduct, and she crossed her arms over her chest.

"I'm not. Not usually," Tom admitted, and he gritted his teeth at the discomfort of saying that to her. He chewed his bottom lip. "I find myself rather entranced by you, Hermione, but I have great difficulty articulating precisely why."

"Because I smell nice?" Hermione joked awkwardly. She shifted on her feet and tightened her arms around her torso. Tom glared down at her and shook his head deliberately.

"No," he said firmly. "I mean… yes, you… I am drawn to the scent of you, for some bizarre and inexplicable reason. But that isn't it. I found myself very cross this morning at breakfast when I observed you receiving the attentions of a different male student."

Hermione raised her eyebrows at him and scoffed, "I think you just don't like to share, Tom. Let us be reasonable about this, hm? You smelled 'me' in the Amortentia, and it bothered you enough to give me a bouquet of flowers. I was rude, I admit. I Vanished the lilacs and made it very obvious that I was not interested in your romantic attentions. So you felt jilted; you felt rejected. And it isn't in your nature to feel that way. I doubt very many people ever tell you 'no,' Tom. Do they?"

She was brazen with him, in a manner that he seldom allowed. Most people were intimidated enough by Tom Riddle that they naturally cowered into submission. The ones who did not submit as easily were quickly put into line. The only two people who had ever spoken to him like this were Albus Dumbledore and, now, Hermione. He dragged his top teeth over his bottom lip in frustration and growled,

"No, Hermione. No one ever tells me 'no.' I always get what I want."

"And why do you want me?" She asked again. Tom felt a bubbling surge of rage in his chest. She was truly being irritating.

"I… have no idea," he repeated through clenched teeth. "I find myself quite unable to curb certain reactions around you. It is unpleasant. I wonder whether a curse has been cast upon me; whether I've been poisoned with some sort of potion. It is inexplicable, what I am experiencing. It is unacceptable."

She looked downright amused then, and that only sent Tom's heart beating more fiercely in his chest. He was affronted by her little smile.

"Are you accusing me of bewitching you?" she demanded. Then she shook her head and laughed. She laughed at Tom Riddle, and she said breezily, "No, Tom. I would never dose you with a potion, nor curse you into pursuing me."

Tom looked down into her chestnut eyes, feeling frustrated at how pretty they looked as they gleamed with amusement. He noticed for the first time the little dusting of pale freckles that danced across Hermione's nose. He noticed that she had an awfully nice form beneath her robes, from what he could tell. He wanted to know more about that form. He growled in irritation and tried to take a step away from her.

It did not work; he wound up stepping toward her instead. Hermione's little smile disappeared when he whispered fiercely, "Who are you, Hermione?"

The glint in her eyes was gone then, too, and she mumbled clumsily, "I - I… I'm just a girl running away from a war."

Tom's hands acted before he could stop them. He'd completely lost control of his movements - a fact that would later alarm him into insomnia.

He pushed Hermione rather roughly by the shoulders until she hit the wall behind her. She let out a soft 'oof!' of surprise, and her amber eyes flew to look at her right shoulder, at where Tom's hand gripped her.

He held fast to her with his left hand, and with his right he cupped her jaw and directed her face up to meet his. She looked frightened now. It was the expression Tom was used to seeing in people - wide eyes glistening with unshed tears, lips parted in alarm, breath coming hard and fast in terror. He knew this expression. He liked it. It made him feel strong.

Usually.

Right now, it made him feel a bit odd. She was pretty like this, he thought. She was pretty with her doe-eyed face panting up at him. He could practically hear the thud of her pulse as she grew more frightened of him by the second. But then, suddenly, he thought back to how her eyes had looked when they were amused.They'd glinted then, too… differently, though. In a more appealing manner.

"You're trying to scare me," Hermione whispered up at him. Tom said nothing. He curled his fingertips up around her cheek and stroked there, feeling how soft her skin was. Warm. Soft. He wanted to touch her more, and that made him angry. Hermione flinched a little as he petted her. That made him angrier than ever. She whispered again, "You're trying to scare me… why? Scare me into bedding you? Scare me away? Which is it, Tom?"

He had no logical response to that question. What did he want from her? The previous day, he'd wanted to destroy her because she was a profound and noticeable distraction. He'd even briefly considered doing something awful to her in that stairwell. But then he'd been rather overcome with a strange longing for her - something he would never be able to explain. All thoughts of destroying her had dissolved in the stairwell, and all he'd been able to think about was the way she looked, the way she smelled, the sound of her voice.

"What do you want from me?" she asked deliberately, trying to get an answer out of him. Tom shook his head and let out a shaking breath as he admitted in a voice that sounded frightening even to his own ears,

"I do not know what I want from you. I know what I need, what I must have. I'm going to kiss you now."

There was the slightest hint of a question in that statement, a request for her to bend to his will. She did, nodding a little and swallowing nervously. Tom let go of her shoulder with his left hand, bringing it up to cup the other side of her jaw. Then he lowered his face, tortuously slowly, until his lips ghosted against hers.

She moaned.

The instant his mouth touched hers, she moaned like a proper harlot. Well, perhaps it wasn't as bad as that, Tom admitted. It was just the tiniest little sound of want, a small cracking sound from somewhere in her throat. Whatever it was, he thought, she should not have done it. By making that sound, she managed to send Tom into something of a frenzy.

His lips were crushing hers. His tongue was urging her mouth to open for him, and then he was exploring the roof of her mouth and sucking roughly upon her bottom lip. He'd never kissed a girl, not like this, but he somehow found he knew exactly what to do.

She tasted sweet and fresh, like lemon and vanilla, and Tom could not suppress the hungry grunt that vibrated from his mouth onto hers. He needed more. He needed more now.

His hips were pressing her roughly against the wall, and Tom found himself unashamed of the hardness that was forming there. He wanted her to feel it; he wanted her to feel the way his body was reacting to the taste of her. He ground his hips hard against her body, letting his erection dig into her abdomen.

She moaned again, louder this time.

And suddenly Tom was stumbling backward, away from her, swiping the back of his hand over his lips and making a confused, angry growling sound. He glared at her, enraged that she'd made him lose control of his body like that.

She panted, staring wide-eyed at him with her back still pressed to the wall. Tom looked away; she was too appealing like that, with her lips swollen and shining from his kiss.

"Go away," he said brusquely, turning to face out the opposite side of the Viaduct. There was silence behind him. Tom shut his eyes and took a shaking breath, and then he said again, more harshly, "Go away, Hermione."

Her footsteps faded quickly as she fled from him.

Tom skipped his next lesson and stood seething on the Viaduct until he knew what it was he had to do.

* * *

Rather mercifully, the next day was Saturday. That meant Hermione could avoid Tom Riddle with relative ease, and she did just that. She sat in the Great Hall at breakfast with her back to the Slytherin table, and she accompanied her fellow Gryffindors out to the Quidditch pitch for the match between Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff.

"I've got Gobstones Club this afternoon," Ladon Scamander was saying as the group trudged back into the castle. "That ruddy little second-year Slytherin girl - Eileen Prince -is frightfully good, I'll admit. Would you care to come and watch, Hermione?"

Hermione hesitated for a moment. She truly had no interest at all in Gobstones, for it was a wizarding game to which she'd only been upon her first arrival at Hogwarts. She'd found it rather dull. Nonetheless, she wanted to fortify her friendships with her fellow Gryffindors. The thought of that - of making friends during this new timeframe - made her quite nostalgic for Harry and Ron. She shoved aside thoughts of the friends she reckoned she'd never see again, and she smiled warmly at Ladon.

"I'd love to see you play."

He looked quite pleased with that response. Perhaps too pleased, Hermione quickly realised, and she hoped sincerely that she hadn't led him on.

"So... we've been avoiding asking you, but we simply can't wait any longer for details." Betty Cattermole eyed Hermione askance as the group climbed the marble staircase out of the Entrance Hall. She gave Hermione an expectant look, mirrored by Maggie Prewett. "How was your walk? With Tom Riddle?"

Hermione frowned and sighed a bit. She had tried hard not to think about that walk, about the way he'd pressed himself up against her on the wall and kissed her. The taste of him had sent a spike of want straight through Hermione's core, and she knew she'd moaned a bit. She coloured at the memory of that, of making noise to urge him on instead of pushing him away.

He'd tasted surprisingly warm, surprisingly sweet. Caramel and honey and mint and cinnamon. He'd tasted like the most delicious dessert Hermione had ever eaten, and she'd found herself lost as he'd pressed his mouth to hers. Then he'd ground his hips onto her belly and showed her that he was hard, that he was aroused. That had only magnified Hermione's wanton sense of need, making her heart pound in her chest and her ears ring and her stomach flutter.

And then he had flown back from her, swiping at his mouth and looking angry and confused. Betrayed by his own body, by her. The black flash of rage had come over his eyes and he'd told her in no uncertain terms to leave. So Hermione had, trotting back to the castle with tears boiling in her eyes.

She'd wanted to forget about the encounter. She'd wanted to pretend it hadn't happened. More than anything, she'd wanted to believe that it had been a fluke - that if for any reason he were to kiss her again, she would not react the way she'd done. She wouldn't moan and feel a surge of moisture between her legs. No. She would slap his smooth cheek and scream and run away. Yes. That was what she'd do.

Only, she knew full well that was not so. Hermione was angry that she had no control over her reactions to Tom Riddle. She knew what he was and who he would become. She knew the things he would do. But that didn't make him taste any less like caramel and cinnamon.

"The walk was... it was nice," Hermione said at last, and she watched as Maggie exchanged a giggle with Betty. Feeling rather irritated by their girlish response, Hermione quickly amended, "I think it is quite clear, though, that Tom Riddle and I are thoroughly incompatible. I think he understands that."

Hours later, she relaxed in a sunny courtyard, her feet tucked neatly under her bottom as she sat and watched Ladon Scamander battle little Eileen Prince in a game of Gobstones. The small girl was scrawny, with a beakish nose and scraggly black hair. Her skin was sallow and she looked very unhappy as she flicked a Gobstone toward Ladon.

Hermione held her breath anxiously as Eileen Prince's green stone glided precisely toward one of Ladon's red ones. The green Gobstone knocked its opponent squarely out of the white circle. A shot of putrid liquid spurted out of the green stone, up toward Ladon's face. He swerved and the foul-smelled liquid landed upon the grass behind him. Eileen looked at Ladon with a triumphant smirk.

"That's seven, then," she said in a hoarse, grating voice. "That's the match. You lose, Scamander."

Ladon chuckled under his breath and gathered up the Gobstones to start over. "Best two of three, then," he suggested, and Eileen nodded.

Hermione felt drowsy in the warm afternoon sun. It was an unseasonably mild day, and it was pleasant to be outside.

"Don't mind me," Hermione mumbled to Ladon. "I'm just going to rest a bit. This sunshine is making me a bit sleepy."

She flopped backward onto the grass with a comic lack of grace. She arranged her skirt neatly about herself and crossed her ankles, bringing her hands up to rest behind her head. The sun was bright, so she shut her eyes and just listened to the sounds of the school.

The little clink, clink, clink of the Gobstones was echoed by the occasional squawk of a bird overhead. There was the low din of various conversations happening among students enjoying the weather. It was peaceful, Hermione thought with a small smile. It was home, no matter the year.

"All right, Miss Prince?"

Hermione's eyes flew open and then quickly shut again against the glare of the sun. She sat up quickly, brushing blades of grass from her bushy hair as she recognised the voice that had suddenly broken her peace.

Tom Riddle had walked into the courtyard, and he was hovering over the game of Gobstones with an imperious expression upon his face. Eileen Prince smiled up unpleasantly at him and nodded.

"Hello, Tom."

"Who's winning?" Tom asked. Hermione thought he must know the answer - Eileen Prince was apparently the best Gobstones player at Hogwarts, despite her age. Tom merely wanted to hear it be said that Slytherin was beating Gryffindor.

"Erm... Eileen is," Ladon acknowledged cautiously, "Though we're going for best two out of three."

"Hmm." Tom nodded thoughtfully. He'd still not acknowledged Hermione's presence, even though she was only a few feet away. She huffed crossly and lay back down, rearranging herself upon the grass and resolutely shutting her eyes.

Then there was an odd pressure beside her, palpable upon the grass. There was the sound of gently swishing fabric, and the radiating heat that indicated another person's presence. More significantly, there was the cold, metallic scent of iron mixing with the warm notes of rosewood. Hermione sighed and turned her face away from him, keeping her eyes shut tightly.

"It's beautiful weather today." His voice came from slightly above her, but was very near. Hermione figured Tom must have sat down beside her upon the grass, but she refused to open her eyes.

"So it is," she said finally. "That's why I'm lying here, trying to relax in the warm silence."

"Walk with me," Tom commanded suddenly, his voice sounding very self-assured. Hermione turned her face back toward him. She put a hand above her eyes to shade them from the sun, and then she glared at him.

"No, thank you," she said through clenched teeth. Tom looked properly irritated at her refusal. His jaw ground visibly, and he stared off at a tree as he tried again.

"Please, Miss Villeneuve. Join me for a walk."

"No. Thank you." Hermione knew she was treading difficult waters here. There was a twinge of something dangerous in his voice as he insisted she walk with him. She knew he would not want it to be obvious to his Slytherin cronies that he was pursuing a girl who did not want him back. That would seriously compromise his authority. Nonetheless, Hermione was afraid to be alone with him again. And, anyway, why should he get everything he wanted? She wrenched her eyes shut once more and put herself back flat upon her back. "I want to stay here. I hope you enjoy your walk."

She had simultaneously rejected and dismissed him, and it had not gone unnoticed. There was a gruff little sound beside her as he cleared his throat in frustration. After a long moment, Tom sighed and Hermione heard him make his way to his feet.

"Very well," he said softly. "Enjoy the fine weather, Hermione."

She did not thank him, nor bid him farewell. She waited for a very long while, until she was certain he must be gone, and then she pulled herself up and cracked open her eyes. As she adjusted to the bright sunlight, she saw Ladon Scamander eyeing her rather oddly from his place at the Gobstones table. Ladon's eyes flicked to the ground beside Hermione, then back up. She furrowed her brows and let her own eyes go where Ladon's had. Then her breath hitched in her chest, and she felt dizzy.

On the grass beside her, bound in green ribbon, was a bouquet of lilacs.

* * *

She did not want him. He needed to accept that and move on, for her public rejections of him were not something that could keep happening. Tom knew full well that the situation with Hermione Villeneuve could compromise his standing among his Slytherins, and he could not have that. He could not appear weak or subject to the same foolish inclinations as the rest of them.

On Sunday, he made absolutely no attempt to speak with her. He did not even cast his eyes toward her in the Great Hall during meals. Instead, he spoke with his Slytherin boys about the situation on the Continent.

"My dad says that Grindelwald's taking full advantage of the Muggle war to gain power," said Mulciber. Tom eyed him cautiously and waited for the other boy to continue. Mulciber chewed upon a rose Turkish delight and then spoke with his mouth full. "He shaid dat Grindelwald is amashing quite de army..."

"Swallow your food, Mulciber," Tom sneered, turning away from the boy's chomping with disgust. Mulciber obeyed, looking embarrassed by Tom's judgment.

Good, Tom thought. They must know better than to behave like that in front of me.

"Rumour has it that Dumbledore intends to confront Grindelwald," said Nott from across the table. The wiry boy sipped carefully at a cup of tea and continued, "They were old friends, you know. If anyone were able to bring down Grindelwald, it would be Dumbledore."

Tom felt an odd flush of fury at the suggestion that Dumbledore was the most powerful wizard alive, that only he and Grindelwald currently held any sway over the wizarding world. Tom said in a low hiss,

"I could defeat Grindelwald, if you put us wand-to-wand. It simply does not serve my purpose at the present time."

"Oh... yes. Of course, Tom. I meant to say... Grindelwald would only be threatened by Dumbledore or by... by you." Nott stumbled over his words and spilled a bit of tea down his jumper, swearing as the dark liquid soaked into his clothes.

Tom rolled his eyes and picked up his wand. "Tergeo," he sneered, and the other boy's jumper was siphoned quickly of tea.

"Thanks, Tom," Nott mumbled.

That night, as Tom lay in his bed with the curtains drawn, he folded his hands over his pyjama shirt and stared up at the ceiling. The other Slytherin boys were sleeping, he could tell, but he was having difficulty again quieting his mind. He wanted her to go away, just like he'd told her to do. And she had, in a way. She'd trotted away from him and rejected him in the courtyard and made it very, very plain that Tom would not be successful in having her for his own.

But she hadn't gone away from his mind. She was still there, like an annoying insect buzzing about between his ears. He could see her gleaming smile as she spoke with Ladon Scamander in the Great Hall. He could smell her - rain, lilacs, damp wood, and lemon - and he could see the way her chestnut eyes had stared at him in the stairwell and on the Viaduct. He could feel the low vibration of her voice as she moaned into his kiss.

Even now, Tom felt an uncomfortable straining in his pyjama trousers at the memory of it, at the thought of how her cheeks had felt warm and smooth beneath his hands. He growled in frustration and touched himself, pumping his hand up and down and squeezing his eyes shut as he thought of her.

Lilac and rain and wood and lemon... sweet and fresh tastes mingling in his mouth as he pulled her tongue between his lips. Her hair, splayed out beneath her like a halo on the grass of the courtyard. The way she'd crossed her ankles so very primly. Amber eyes, wide with want and confusion and fear, as he slammed her back against the wall and moved to kiss her.

His breath came hard and ragged through his clenched teeth, and when he came and made an enormous mess of his pyjamas, Tom sneered down at himself disdainfully.

Who exactly did this girl think she was, that she was entitled to do this to him? Tom climbed quickly and silently from his bed and padded to the showers, where he scrubbed his skin mercilessly until it was raw and sore.

She had no right to disable him like this, he thought with a pang of anger. Who did she think she was?

* * *

Hermione reinforced the invisible, magical mask covering her face as she lowered a calendula flower into her cauldron. The potion they were brewing today would produce Garrotting Gas, and Professor Slughorn had warned the sixth-years that to breathe in the vapours would be terribly dangerous. Hermione had no desire to suffocate in Potions lessons, so she was brewing with extreme caution.

Beside her, Ladon Scamander's cauldron made a strange hissing noise and flared purple.

"Oh, dear," Ladon sighed, shaking his head. He Vanished the contents of his cauldron. "I shall have to start over."

Hermione gave him a little sympathetic smile. Professor Slughorn wandered over to their desks, drawn by the sound and flash from Ladon's work.

"No problem, my dear boy," Slughorn said to Ladon, waving his hand dismissively. "Begin again, and this time ensure that you only stir sixteen times clockwise before changing direction, hmm? Oh... Mr. Scamander, I'm reminded that I am hosting a get-together on Wednesday... a dinner for the Slug Club. You'll join me, won't you?"

Hermione felt rather amused that Slughorn had apparently been at his game of favourites for decades. She tried not to scoff as Ladon said,

"Oh. Yes, of course, Sir. Thank you."

"Bring a guest!" Slughorn insisted. "A young lady, perhaps?" The teacher chuckled under his breath and looked meaningfully from Ladon to Hermione and back again. Hermione felt her cheeks colour with embarrassment, and she cast her eyes down into her cauldron. Slughorn dashed off at the sound of another cauldron bursting across the room.

After a long, terribly awkward moment of silence, Ladon Scamander said quietly, "Well... would you care to accompany me to the Slug Club party, Hermione? It might be a nice way for you to meet some new people...?"

He sounded very unsure of himself, and when Hermione looked up to give him a warm smile, Ladon's cheeks were flushed and his eyes were wide. Hermione nodded and said,

"I'd be delighted. Thank you, Ladon."

Then she saw the boy a few tables over - him, Tom Riddle - who was staring intently at Ladon and Hermione as his cauldron simmered. Tom looked properly cross as he interpreted the interaction between Hermione and Ladon. His dark eyes were narrowed and a small frown pulled at the corners of his lips. Hermione was annoyed that he was still behaving this way, and she flicked her eyes back to Ladon and widened her grin.

"What time shall I be ready for the party, Ladon?" she asked, her voice too loud for the quiet classroom. Ladon looked a bit taken aback by her sudden enthusiasm, and he stammered,

"Eight - eight o'clock, perhaps?"

"Wonderful." Hermione nodded and grinned more widely than ever.

On Wednesday night, she emerged from the bathroom with a look of abject trepidation upon her face. She'd borrowed a dress from Betty Cattermole for the occasion, a pretty teal frock made of tulle. It fit her well except for being a tad long, since Betty was taller than Hermione by a few inches. Hermione had applied cosmetics and styled her hair into what she hoped was a convincingly accurate iteration of formal curls from the time.

"I say, Hermione!" exclaimed Maggie Prewett. "You do clean up nicely, don't you?"

The two other girls sat upon Betty's bed and were flipping through the latest copy of Witch Weekly magazine. Betty grinned from ear to ear at the sight of Hermione all tarted up.

"Oh... he's going to think you look splendid!" she exclaimed. Hermione smiled meekly.

"I hope he does, but only so that I don't embarrass him. I want to be friends with Ladon, not -"

"I wasn't talking about Ladon," Betty smirked, and Maggie giggled from beside her. "Tom. Tom Riddle. He's always at those Slug Club parties. Professor Slughorn thinks he'll be very powerful someday, so he's pulled him into his circle, you know."

"Tom will be there?" Hermione hadn't thought of that, for some reason. She hadn't heard Professor Slughorn invite him in the Potions lesson. But, then, of courseTom Riddle would be at a Slug Club event in the 1940s. He was the future Lord Voldemort, and anyone could see that the boy's potential for power was immense. The ambitious Slughorn would have seized on that.

Would have. Did. Is.

Hermione shut her eyes for a moment as the tenses of verbs jumbled in her mind. Was this the 'past' anymore? Or had it become her present? Was the future that she'd already lived even relevant?

She couldn't think of that now. It was only a few minutes to eight, and she was due to meet Ladon in the Gryffindor Common Room. Hermione was about to spritz on some perfume at her vanity, but she paused with the atomiser aimed at her neck. She suddenly remembered what Tom Riddle had said to her, when they'd stood upon the Viaduct days previously.

I am drawn to the scent of you, for some bizarre and inexplicable reason.

It wouldn't be wise to cover up her own signature, Hermione pondered, and she set the bottle of perfume down. After all, if Tom Riddle could manipulate everyone around him, why couldn't Hermione Granger manipulate him?

* * *

Tom was already seated at Slughorn's table when she walked into the room. Tom flew to his feet, touching the buttons of his suit coat gently and inclining his head chivalrously.

"Welcome, Miss Villeneuve... Mr. Scamander!" Slughorn greeted the two of them happily, and Tom watched as the Scamander boy pulled out a chair for Hermione and unfolded her napkin for her. She let him do it, too, even though Tom knew full well that Hermione was no delicate flower.

Tom sat back down once Hermione was seated, placing his own napkin carefully upon his lap. He'd come alone, of course. He could have asked any girl in the ruddy school to accompany him, and they would have swooned at the thought of a date with Tom Riddle. He could have asked any girl he wanted... except for her.

She'd said 'yes' to Ladon Scamander (the pimple-faced idiot), but Tom knew full well that Hermione would have rejected him if he'd asked her. Why? He was infuriated by that knowledge. Tom was good-looking, ambitious, powerful, popular, and intelligent. What did Ladon Scamander have that Tom didn't, exactly?

The conversation at the table revolved for an hour on Quidditch. Tom had no interest in discussing the sport, and it seemed Hermione didn't, either. She was picking absently at a meatball upon her plate with a fork while Ladon Scamander enthusiastically discussed the Appleby Arrows' new Chaser.

Tom stared at Hermione intently, willing her to lay down her fork and look at him. He was not entirely sure why he wanted that. Perhaps he wanted to make her uncomfortable, to make her feel threatened.

Or perhaps he simply wanted to look at her chestnut eyes for a moment.

Tom coughed a bit at the thought of that, and then Hermione did what he'd been willing her to do. She raised her eyes to him and stared back, her face unreadable.

She looked rather pretty, Tom thought disdainfully. She had on a teal-coloured confection of a dress, and her hair was elegantly coiffed. Her lips were painted and her eyes shadowed, and she wore a delicate string of pearls round her neck.

Her arms were bare, for the dress she wore had quite short sleeves. Tom could not help but notice the nice shape that her arms had - lean and toned, but not overly skinny. He wondered what it would feel like to ghost his fingertips over the skin of her arms. Would she shiver if he did?

He huffed and stabbed his fork into the meatball upon his own plate, for now Hermione had managed to be brought into the conversation at the table. She was discussing her apathy toward Quidditch, and the others were trying to convince her of the game's merits. She laughed jovially and brushed them off, and Tom felt a queasy sense of envy coiling in his lower abdomen.

Why could they all make her smile, and he couldn't? He was Tom Riddle - he was Lord Voldemort - he was not incompetent, but she was making him feel that way. He positively quivered with anger when Slughorn announced that it was time for dancing, and Ladon Scamander guided Hermione smoothly to the small dance floor.

Tom stayed seated where he was, bile rising in his throat as he watched Hermione put her hand on Ladon Scamander's shoulder. Worse yet was when the Scamander boy dared put his hand upon Hermione's waist, and then they began moving to the strains of the string instruments in the corner.

"We should have brought girls," said a voice beside Tom, and he jolted and turned his attention to Orion Black, the Slytherin boy from the powerful and ancient Black family. He was a few years younger than Tom, but already seemed as though he would make a loyal follower. Orion gave Tom a wistful stare and leaned onto his hand, saying, "I was going to ask Walburga, you know. But I couldn't find the courage."

Tom smirked at the younger boy. "You must level allow yourself to feel intimidated by a woman," he said, and then realised with a nasty start that he was doing just that. Orion said nothing in response; he merely nodded, but Tom felt a surge of determination in his veins. "Excuse me, Black," he said politely, and he rose from his seat with a smooth motion.

Tom pulled at his sleeves, straightened his tie, and took a deep and steadying breath. Then he glided across the room until he reached the dance floor. Hermione was smiling at Ladon Scamander as they danced, and the sight of it made Tom very cross. He pulled up behind Ladon, and Hermione's smile suddenly disappeared. Tom put his hand upon Ladon's shoulder, letting it sit there like a weight, and the Scamander boy stopped moving at once. He pulled his hands from Hermione's body and turned round to face Tom.

Tom cocked his head to the side and flashed them both his trademark crooked grin. "May I cut in, Scamander?" he asked delicately. "I can scarcely leave this evening without a dance from Miss Villeneuve."

She stared at him as though she were strongly considering some snide remark, as though she were going to tell him he wasn't getting the dance he wanted.

Stay silent, Hermione, and just dance with me, Tom willed, letting his dark eyes glitter at her. Ladon Scamander muttered some polite words of excuse and made his way over to the dining table. Tom slid into his place, never once losing eye contact with Hermione. He put one hand upon her narrow waist and reached for her other hand, and he felt her own hand carefully reach up to rest on his shoulder. Tom tried not to flinch when her fingers curled around his suit jacket, gripping him gently as they began to sway to the music.

He stared at her in silence for a good long while, breathing in her refreshing aroma and noticing that she'd not covered it up with perfume. That had to have been on purpose, he thought. She wanted him to smell her. She wanted him to want her.

Well done, then, Hermione, Tom thought bitterly, for he was unable to control the way his body tingled at the places where his skin contacted hers. He was suddenly catapulted back to the taste of her, to the sound of her moan as it buzzed against his lips. He shut his eyes and swallowed heavily, feeling angry again.

"May I ask you something, Hermione?" he said through clenched teeth, and he looked down at her to see that her amber eyes had gone wide. She was watching him struggle, but for once she did not seem to find it funny. Her own breathing was coming shakily through her nostrils as they danced. Tom realised that no matter how badly she attempted to fight off the attraction, she wanted him, as well.

"Would it matter if I said 'no'?" Hermione replied, cocking up an eyebrow. Tom chuckled a bit and shook his head.

"Why do you despise me so?"

He was used to being feared, to making people nervous, to getting what he wanted. He was entirely unaccustomed to this - to being so thoroughly and evidently despised.

"I do not despise you," Hermione murmured. She lowered her eyes and stared at Tom's tie, and he absently hoped it was straight and neat at his neck.

"Is that so?" he pressed her, and she hesitated on her feet for a brief moment before falling back into the rhythm of the dance. Tom continued, "Why is it, then, that you are here with Ladon Scamander?"

"Because he asked me to come," Hermione frowned. She looked up at him through her eyelashes, and Tom squared his jaw as he sighed crossly. Hermione said, "You didn't ask me."

"I wasn't given the opportunity," Tom snapped. "Obviously, I would have asked you to accompany me. Except I rather expect I would have been rejected. Again."

She said nothing in response to that, but her hand tightened at his shoulder a little, and her lips parted as she tried to think of what to say. Finally, she murmured,

"The lilacs are on my bedside table. In a vase with water. I've charmed them to preserve them, so they won't die."

Tom stopped dancing then, unable for some reason to keep moving. He stared at Hermione's amber eyes, at the way they glistened with unshed tears, and he thought back to how he'd left the lilac bouquet beside her prone form in the courtyard on Saturday. So she'd kept the flowers. So what?

"I should have sent you away," Tom found himself saying, and he tried desperately to begin moving correctly to the music again. "From the Viaduct, you know."

"No?" Hermione demanded incredulously. "What should you have done, Tom? Should you have kept kissing me until we both lost control entirely? Until you did something both of us would have regretted?"

"You want me, and I want you," Tom growled, gripping her waist more tightly and pulling her closer to his body. He felt a sudden possessiveness of her. "I have no idea why. I don't know the meaning behind the experience with the Amortentia. But I find myself unable and not exactly eager to fight it off anymore."

"So am I meant to go back with you to the Slytherin boys' dormitories tonight, then?" Hermione scoffed. "After all, Tom Riddle always gets what he wants, correct?"

"Correct." Tom sneered the word down at her like a curse, and then he abruptly dipped his face to meet hers. He touched his lips to her cheekbone, fearing that if he tasted her mouth again, she'd slap him in front of everyone.

She shivered in his arms, and it felt delightful to know he was affecting her. But then her pretty brown eyes fluttered shut and she shook her head sadly.

"I don't want to play games with you," she whispered. "Please, Tom. Just leave me be. You can have any girl in this school, any girl you want -"

"I do not want them," Tom said honestly. "I would sooner have no girl at all - I would gladly have no girl at all. I am currently dancing with the only one I want."

She chewed on her bottom lip, looking torn and nervous, and she squeezed his hand as she frantically mumbled, "You don't know anything about me. We're strangers."

"Fine, then," Tom grumbled, rolling his eyes. "Tell me your favourite colour. Your favourite food. What your parents did for a living. Tell me the title of the best book you've ever read, and what it is you hope to do after school. Tell me about the pets you grew up with, and how you take your tea."

Hermione looked as though she were going to cry, and for once the expression did not fill Tom with a sense of accomplishment. "Do you care about any of that?" she asked softly.

"Not really," Tom admitted, for it was useless to lie to her anymore... at least about this sort of thing. But Hermione dragged her teeth over her bottom lip, and she said determinedly,

"My favourite colour changes with my mood. Some days it's orange; other days it's a pale purple. The colour of lilacs. My favourite food is Brie cheese with sliced apples and walnuts. My parents are dead, so let's not speak about them. The best book I've ever read is A Biography of Bridget Wenlock. I have no idea, truly, what I'm meant to do after school. I wish I knew. My life would be easier if I knew. I grew up with a few cats; we never had a dog."

She took her hands off of Tom and stepped back, for there was a break between songs and the music had ended. She wrung her hands together and stared down at her fingers, and then she murmured,

"And I take my tea with a small bit of milk. No sugar."

"I see." Tom cleared his throat. He didn't care about Brie cheese or Hermione's interest in Bridget Wenlock. He did not care about her cats, or her aspirations, or the fact that she apparently enjoyed the colour of lilacs as well as smelling of them.

He did not care. Did he?

No. He could not care - he must not. She was just a silly little girl with a silly little body that was trying to distract him from his goals. And the least of his concerns was whether she preferred sugar in her tea. That didn't matter at all.

Did it?

"Slughorn's wrapping up the evening," Tom said briskly. "Come. I shall escort you back to Gryffindor Tower."

She quirked up a smile then, crooked like his so often was, and she shook her head gently. "Have you forgotten?" she asked. "I came with Ladon Scamander. Hecan walk me back. Thank you anyway, Tom."

"Oh. Indeed." Tom let his voice sound distant and detached, and he cast a stony blankness over his face. "Goodnight, then. Thank you for the dance."

"Goodnight," she answered numbly, not moving from her place on the dance floor as Tom bowed his head and strode quickly away.

* * *

The night was considerably chillier than the day had been, and as Hermione walked with Ladon Scamander through the corridors, she wished she'd brought a jumper to put over her dress. Goosebumps prickled up upon her arms and she shivered a bit as they walked.

"Here you are," Ladon said, and he took off his suit jacket before putting it delicately around Hermione's shoulders. She smiled meekly at him, at his chivalry, and murmured,

"Thank you. I had a wonderful time this evening, Ladon."

"As did I. You looked lovely tonight, Hermione. I'm... very glad you've come to school here."

Hermione paused her steps and looked up into Ladon's face. His eyes were pale and shone in the moonlight that beamed in through the open archways. His skin was imperfect, and his face was plump, and he wasn't terribly tall. But Hermione suddenly didn't much care about any of that. He was very polite, and he seemed interested in her. She flashed him another small smile and started to continue walking.

But then she felt Ladon's hand reach out and take hers, lacing their fingers together, and he pulled her back to face him. He was gentle and slow as he moved, but rather persuasive, and Hermione felt a heady rush come over her. She looked at his pale eyes again and saw the unmistakable male hunger there. She shook her head firmly.

"Oh, Ladon... I'm very sorry if I... if I've been confusing. I'm so glad you're my friend; I should be terribly desolate here without your hospitality and that of the Gryffindors, but -"

His hands moved to her waist, and he smiled down at Hermione with a wide grin. "You haven't been confusing, Hermione," he insisted. "You've been very obvious."

Hermione frowned and shook her head again. He was still moving in a slow, deliberate way. So he doesn't scare me off, Hermione thought quickly, so that I don't run.

She suddenly thought she ought to have her wand in her hand, and she reached into the Expanded purse she'd brought with her and fished about until her hand closed around the handle of her vine wand. She started to pull it out, but then she saw Ladon point his own wand at her. A small ball of white light appeared, and Hermione was shoved backward a few metres on the ground. She stumbled and realised her wand had been knocked from her hand by Ladon's nonverbal Disarming charm.

"Ladon," she said firmly, trying to sound menacing, "Give me my wand back. I'm going back to Gryffindor Tower - alone."

She had no idea what had come over him. He'd seemed so gentlemanly, so proper and kind and friendly. But now he was sneering a bit as he leaned down to pick Hermione's wand up off the floor. He tucked it away into his waistband and reached for Hermione's waist again. She turned around and ran. It was the only thing she could do.

Of course, Ladon was armed, and she heard him say, "Impedimenta."

Hermione's legs suddenly felt as though they weighed a tonne each, and she was no longer running. It was as though she were trying to swim through honey; the air felt thick and heavy and solid.

"Come back, love," she heard Ladon's soft voice say behind her. "We should be more than friends. You don't need that Riddle boy."

"Doesn't she, though?"

Hermione tried to turn round at the sound of Tom's voice, but Ladon's jinx was still making it impossible to move.

"Finite incantatem," she heard, and then her freedom of movement was quickly restored. She whirled around to see Tom pointing his wand at Ladon, who had been nonverbally Disarmed himself by Tom. Ladon's wand, as well as Hermione's, lay upon the ground beside Tom.

Tom, who looked very, very angry, Hermione noted. He was visibly shaking as he cast some nonverbal spell that sent Ladon hurtling backward and crashing against the stone wall. Tom briskly stalked over to stand above the other boy, who was now moaning in agony. When Tom spoke, he bared his teeth and hissed,

"I saw you, Scamander. I heard you. Are you deaf, or merely an imbecile? She told you plainly she was not interested in you. She asked for her wand back after you took it. And what did you do, Scamander? You tried to put your hands back on her."

Hermione felt abruptly frightened, for there was a terrible threat in Tom's low, furious voice. His wand hand was trembling fiercely as he aimed it down at Ladon Scamander. Hermione was just about to call out to Tom, to urge him to have some control, but then she heard him mutter,

"Crucio."

Tom sounded alarmingly unaffected by saying the awful incantation. He almost looked relieved when the web of red light burst from his wand and tangled its way around Ladon Scamander's huddled form. And he looked downright joyful as Ladon shrieked and moaned, twitching and writhing upon the ground in pain.

"Tom," Hermione said. She'd meant to be more forceful, to have more volume and insistence behind her voice. But she was so shocked by what was happening that his name escaped her lips as little more than a cracked sob. She tried again. "Tom... Tom, please. Tom!"

Finally, Tom flicked his eyes up to her. His Cruciatus was still active on Ladon, and the boy continued to convulse from the torture. Hermione vigorously shook her head, feeling tears stream unchecked down her face.

"Please stop it," she said. Tom squared his jaw and snapped his wand up, breaking the curse. He sneered down at the still-twitching Ladon, shoving the boy with his foot.

"Do you see, Scamander?" he asked. "It isn't terribly complicated to listen to a lady. She told me to stop, and I stopped. Let that be your lesson tonight. Get off the ground and go back to whatever hole you crawled from."

It was a very long moment before Ladon Scamander pulled himself to his knees. He swiped his hand at his nose, and there was a bit of blood. Other than that, his body looked unharmed, for the Cruciatus did not cause physical injury. But Ladon was quaking and looked very pale as he stumbled away from Tom. Hermione impulsively took off the jacket he'd given her and thrust it at him. He scowled at her, and she could see that his bottom lip trembled as though he were struggling not to cry.

"Your wand, Scamander," Tom said. Ladon turned round to take the wand from Tom. Before he released the wand, Tom met Ladon's eyes and tipped up his chin. "Do not ever touch Hermione again, unless she very distinctly asks you to do so. Do you understand?"

"Yes. I understand. I'm sorry." Ladon's voice sounded blank and distant. He took his wand and turned to limp away. Hermione watched him go until he rounded the corner away from them. Then she turned back over her shoulder and saw Tom looking down at her with a smug, self-satisfied expression.

"Are you quite all right?" he asked her finally. Hermione felt anger bubbling up in her chest as she realised that it really was him. It was Voldemort before her. He'd just tortured a boy when a simple Disarming spell would have worked just fine. But he liked to cause pain, she realised. Hermione's hand was flying toward his face to slap him before she could think through it.

He caught her wrist deftly in the air and squeezed gently as he dragged her hand away from his cheek. He did not let go of her hand, nor break contact with her eyes. He took a step closer to her and asked again in a silky murmur,

"Are you all right, Hermione? Did he hurt you?"

"No." Hermione shook her head resolutely and felt more tears tumbling from her eyes. "No, Tom. He didn't hurt me. You just tortured a boy for being stupid. I hope you're happy. I really do hate you now."

She turned away from him and tried to pull out of his grasp, tried to walk away. But he pulled her back, and when he looked down at her now, there was a very odd expression crossing his face.

He looked... frightened.

His dark eyes glittered, but not in the predatory fashion they normally did. He looked... desperate. His lips were parted and his breath shook through his teeth as he whispered,

"Please, Hermione. What must I do for you?"

Hermione felt more tears, hot and insistent, streaming down her cheeks, and she used her free hand to swipe them away. She shook her head helplessly, not knowing how to answer Tom's question. Suddenly he was pressing her wand into her hand - he must have picked it up off the ground, Hermione thought - and taking a step back from her. He licked his bottom lip and said,

"Go on. Get your revenge. You don't want me, but my mind and body seem most unwilling to accept that fact. So, please, Hermione. Hurt me, hex me. Make me hate you as you hate me."

Hermione stared down at the wand in her hand and thought for a moment. She could hex him, but she did not want to. She finally met his eyes and said,

"You want to hate me, Tom Marvolo Riddle?"

He flinched visibly at her use of his middle name, but he quickly recovered himself and nodded. "If I can't have you, then, yes. I want to hate you."

"All right," Hermione shrugged. She took a trembling breath and said matter-of-factly, "I'm a Mudblood."

He furrowed his eyebrows at her and frowned. "What?"

Hermione took a half step toward him and nodded with a sense of satisfaction. "I'm a Mudblood," she said again. "My mother wasn't a witch. My parents were Muggles. I know how you feel about Muggle-borns, Tom. So, there it is. Hate me. I'm a Mudblood."

He looked furious with her, his top lip curling up into a snarl as he shook fiercely and growled, "That isn't enough."

Hermione felt confused. She took back the half step she'd taken, moving away from him. "What do you mean?"

"I'm standing here, and you've just told me that you've got Muggle parents," Tom affirmed desperately. "So you're a liar, and you're a Mudblood. But it isn't enough. I don't hate you, no matter how badly I want to. I still smell the rain on you. I still smell spring when you're near me. I still want to taste you and touch your skin. I still want to look at you lying in the sun. I still want to give you lilacs, and -"

She silenced him by closing the space between them, reaching up to grasp his face in her hands, and crushing her mouth against his.

* * *

She'd turned him into a bloody fool, and he'd let her do it.

Tom was overwhelmed as she kissed him. His body sprang to life - his skin prickled with excitement, his head rushed as though he were drunk, and his trousers suddenly felt very restrictive.

Some part of his brain was screaming at him to point his wand at her and kill her, to eliminate the threat to his ambition that she posed. But he could not do that, no matter how much logical sense it made.

At some point, she broke away from their kiss, and Tom impulsively snatched her hand and dragged her down the corridor until he came to a classroom he knew was deserted. He unlocked the door with a nonverbal incantation, and he shoved his way over the threshold.

"Incendio," he whispered, and the lanterns upon the wall lit themselves, bathing the empty room in a warm, low glow. Tom locked the door and cast a Silencing Charm upon the space. Then he turned back to Hermione and tried to breathe.

She was particularly pretty tonight, he realised again. The teal frilly dress she wore hugged her lean frame beautifully, and Tom once again marveled at the smooth, pale skin of her arms. He reached out with a shaking hand - willed his fingers to be still and steady - and he touched her. He ghosted his knuckles down from her shoulder, over her elbow, and he stopped when their fingers touched.

Hermione had shut her eyes, and she swayed where she stood as if she were very dizzy. Tom smirked to himself; she liked to be touched. She liked to be touched by him. He brought his hand back up to her jaw and leaned down toward her. He pressed his lips to hers, and it was as if something had ignited between them. It was a fire, raging beyond control, burning hotter and brighter with each passing second.

Tom sank into a chair at a desk and pulled Hermione down by her hands. She clumsily climbed onto his lap, straddling a thigh on either side of him and trying to keep kissing him.

"Why?" she asked suddenly, her hips hovering maddeningly above Tom's. He grunted in frustration and bucked his erection up to try and make contact with her knickers.

"What do you mean, 'why'?" He demanded crossly. "Why what?"

Hermione pulled her lips away from him, eliciting another grunt of anger. She put her hand on Tom's jaw and let her fingers drift over his cheek. Tom tried not to shudder at the pleasant sensation. Finally, Hermione spoke.

"Why did you torture him? All you had to do was get his wand away... why did you cast an Unforgivable, Tom?"

"Because of the way he touched you," Tom answered truthfully. He was speaking through clenched teeth, and his hands reached up suddenly to grip her waist rather tightly. "Like this. He held you like this, as if you were his."

"I'm not anybody's," Hermione said firmly. "Not yours, either."

Tom felt a strange flush enter his cheeks, and he sneered at her, "I know that. You've made that very plain."

"You can't just torture people when you don't like what they do, Tom," Hermione said, and there was a distant sadness in her voice that told him she was slipping away from their physical encounter. She made a move to rise from his lap, but Tom tightened his grip.

"I can do whatever I please," he corrected her, glaring into her amber eyes. She parted her lips in surprise at his gall, but he continued, "I did not care for the way he touched you. He was going to do worse. He was going to keep going, you know. I looked in his head. I saw him imagining... awful things. He was going to hurtyou."

"So you hurt him first," Hermione nodded. She looked as though she might begin crying again, and there was a strange stab in Tom's chest at that thought. For some bizarre reason, he did not wish for her to cry.

"I protected you," Tom whispered. He felt conflicted.

Kill her, said a corner of his mind. She is a distraction. A threat. Get rid of her.

But then another part of his mind started shouting, just as loudly. Kiss her. Touch her. Say pretty little words to her and make her melt into you. You want her.

He did. He wanted to possess her, far more than he wanted to kill her. He dragged his teeth over his bottom lip. Hermione looked up at him through her eyelashes.

"Why? Why did you protect me? You don't even know me." She shook her head and frowned.

"Yes, I do." Tom nodded resolutely. "You may be a Mudblood, and you may be a liar. So there may be a great deal I do not know about you. I do not care; I have no fear of secrets. But I know enough. You are intelligent, and witty, and strong-willed. You smell like rain. You taste like vanilla. Your eyes are the colour of warm honey. And you take your tea with a bit of milk, but no sugar."

She was kissing him again then, and she pressed herself more firmly against his seated body. Her tongue darted into his mouth and he sucked on it, releasing it just so that he could drag his teeth over her lips. She moaned, far more wantonly than she'd done in the Viaduct, and she drove her hips down onto Tom's. Her lovely dress splayed out around them, covering up the point where her knickers made contact with his suit trousers.

He was almost painfully erect now, and it was getting worse every time she ground her hips onto him. His manhood twitched and ached and strained in his trousers, and Tom groaned against his will into Hermione's mouth.

He wanted to possess her, to consume her. He wanted to feel every bit of her he could. He had no idea whether or not this opportunity would present itself ever again, so he reached beneath her skirts and pushed aside the crotch of her knickers. The pads of his fingers found a delicious wet warmth there, and he struggled to stay conscious.

She pulled her mouth from his and tipped her head back, staring at the ceiling and sighing with want. Her elegant, swan-like neck was fully exposed when she tipped her head back, and Tom lunged forward to kiss her there.

She cried out loudly when he did, and her hands buried themselves in the thick curls upon his head.

"Tom," she whispered, and he shivered at the sound of his name. His fingers were dancing against her entrance as if they knew precisely what to do. He was massaging her, rubbing circles and dipping a fingertip inside of her every now and then. She bucked her hips hard onto his lap, and he pushed himself against her desperately.

"Are you..." he began, his voice a low grumble against the skin of her neck. He was not sure how best to posit his question. "Have you ever..."

"No." She shook her head firmly and panted. "No. I'm a virgin."

"Oh. I see." Tom was not certain what to make of that. Of course, he'd never been with a girl, so it seemed neither of them had very much experience. He found himself rather unable to judge whether or not she intended for this to be how she lost her virginity - to a boy she scarcely knew, in a deserted classroom, after a rather disturbing encounter in the corridor. He stilled his fingers against her entrance and asked in a silky murmur, "Would you like me to take you, Hermione?"

She pushed herself against his hand, urging him to move again and drawing a visceral noise from his throat. But she shook her head once more and whispered,

"Not tonight, Tom. I'm sorry..."

"Don't be sorry," he commanded her, relieved to hear that his voice had managed to regain some of its normal flinty distance. He pulled back and smirked up at her crookedly. "I shall take you when you're ready."

She scoffed at him and blushed deeply. "Tom..." Then she rocked her hips against his hand again and asked meekly, "Keep going? Please?"

He smiled to himself as he pulled his fingers from her and wiped them discreetly upon his trouser leg. He put his hands back on her hips and guided her to move rhythmically against him. She let him do it, and her hips were soon cycling up and down, driving against Tom's insistent erection each time she came down.

He moved his mouth to her neck, to the side he hadn't kissed yet, and he dragged his teeth over her skin as he huffed out breath. She was saying his name, over and over again, chanting it like a prayer as she begged him for... something.

"Please, Tom... yes, Tom, it feels... oh, Tom, I'm going to..."

He suddenly wanted to feel her finish for him, for he'd never been in the presence of a woman's orgasm before. His hand was up beneath her skirt before he knew what was happening. The moment his fingertips touched her entrance again, Hermione keened out his name in a desperate wail, and her hands clutched onto him as if she would die otherwise.

Then there was an irregular clenching around Tom's fingers as she finished, driven to her climax by the pressure and friction of their contact. Her walls seized around his fingertips and there was a surge of wet heat. She was moaning as if she was in pain, her breath coming in frantic pants through her teeth.

Tom just sat and marveled at the spectacle, finally pulling his fingers from her again when he sensed her coming down from her high. It had been beautiful, and fascinating, to feel her finish for him... to know that she'd been driven to that by his body.

Hermione slowly edged backward, sitting upright and trying to catch her breath. Her hair was a dissheveled nest, but Tom found he rather preferred it that way. Her lipstick was smeared and there were angry welts on her neck where he'd been a bit rough kissing her. It was splendid to see her like this, he thought. To see her a mess because of him.

"You didn't..." Hermione gasped slightly, gazing down at the large and obvious lump in his trousers. She raised her caramel-coloured eyes to him and whispered, "I'm sorry!"

Tom quirked up the corner of his mouth, knowing he'd have to finish himself off in his dormitory to avoid an entire night of pain down there. He did not wish to pressure her to touch him - he might frighten her away forever if he did.

"It's quite all right," he lied. "Let's... let's get you back to Gryffindor Tower, then."

* * *

The walk up to the seventh floor seemed interminable in its heavy silence. Hermione felt like an absolute harlot. She'd done awful things with Tom - with him, with the boy that would become Voldemort. And the worst bit was how very much she'd enjoyed it. Enjoyed him.

His kisses sent a fiery heat straight through her. The sight of his eyes made her knickers wet and sticky. The feel of his fingers, of his erection, against her body had been enough to bring her to climax. It did not seem fair; he'd been marginally more in control throughout the entire encounter and hadn't debased himself by finishing in his trousers.

"Hermione," he said carefully, as they neared the portrait of the Fat Lady. She turned to face him, peeling off the suit jacket he'd offered her on the way here. It was the second suit coat she'd been given tonight, Hermione realised with a deep frown.

"Thank you," she said quietly to him. Then, thinking quickly that it might sound as though she were thanking him for touching her, she clarified, "For walking me back. For... rescuing me. No matter how overboard you went with your vengeance."

She smiled weakly at him, and he looked serious as he urged her to keep on the suit jacket. "It's a chilly evening," he noted. "You keep that for now."

Hermione pulled the jacket around herself protectively, nodding her thanks.

"Goodnight, then, Tom." She turned to give the password to the Fat Lady.

"Hermione, I..." Tom's voice was low and steady behind her, but when she turned round, his eyes were sparkling with a strange expression. He gritted his teeth and looked rather cross with her, his face contrasting sharply with the words he spoke. "I am very glad you are here, Hermione."

She did not know if she could respond in kind. There was a sharp memory in her mind of him, a much older, much less human him, sending her back here. He'd done it after years in tyrannical power, years of terrorising wizards and Muggles alike. Terrorising her.

So Hermione just nodded, overcome with confusion, and turned to the portrait of the Fat Lady.

"Cataplectatio," she murmured, and the Fat Lady gave her a disapproving stare as she swung open the entrance to the Gryffindor Common Room.

She entered without another word or look back to Tom. When she climbed the stairs into the girls' dormitories, Hermione felt the full weight of this reality settling upon her shoulders.

'You were there, and so now I must send you. You understand? I don't have a choice. I very much dislike when I am not in control - you shall quickly learn that about me, I suppose. But in this matter, there can be no alteration of the path, no compromising reality. You were there, and therefore now you must go.'

Hermione nearly collapsed to her knees in the corridor outside the sixth-year girls' bedroom. She could hear his voice, as Lord Voldemort, plain as day. He'd sent her here because she'd already been here. No one had seemed eager to tell her just what she'd done here.

He'd kissed her, roughly, in his old and hideous form. He'd pushed his tongue between her lips and cupped her jaw just like he'd done earlier tonight. And he'd said calmly,'Ah, yes. I remember **that** , too.'

As if she'd already kissed him before.

But then Hermione realised something. Unless there was an aberration with time, unless there was more than one Hermione in existence in the 1990s... then something had happened to her. She'd died, or she'd gone somewhere else in time. He'd been alone for years, after all. If Hermione stayed here, in this time, what was to become of her?

The door to the bedroom flew open then, and Hermione looked up to see Betty Cattermole standing in the threshold, looking concerned. She had curlers in her hair and was wearing a flannel night robe. She looked so old-fashioned, and it reminded Hermione thoroughly of where she was. She felt tears worming their way down her cheeks again.

"Hermione!" Betty cried, reaching out into the corridor to retrieve Hermione and gently pull her into the dormitory. "What on Earth happened to you? You're a right mess!"

"Is she all right?" Maggie Prewett turned round from her vanity, where she was combing out her bright red hair. Maggie's brow crumpled at the sight of the dissheveled, crying Hermione, and she set down her hairbrush. "Who hurt you, Hermione?"

She cried even harder then, for the girls were being so very kind. Cattermole. Prewett. Those were names that would still be present in Hermione's time. She'd known these young ladies' descendents, and now she stood in a room with them as a fellow Gryffindor.

Finally - finally - the weight of it all hit her, like a brick to the face. She disappeared into the bathroom and shut the door, crying for a good long while she sat upon the edge of the claw-foot bathtub.

Hours later, Betty and Maggie had gotten Hermione settled into bed. Once they'd established that she did not need to go to the Hospital Wing, they'd helped her wash her face and comb out her hair, and they'd urged her to go back to the bathroom and put on pyjamas.

Hermione took Tom's jacket with her to bed. She wasn't sure why she did that, except that it smelled like him and comforted her. It shouldn't comfort her, she knew. She should have been horrified by the thought that she'd let him touch her the way he'd done. He'd kissed her, and fondled her, and...

And given her lilacs. Hermione flicked her eyes over to the bedside table, where the magically-preserved purple flowers were visible in the moonlight.

He tortured Ladon Scamander, Hermione reminded herself. The image of Ladon writhing around on the ground was fresh in her mind. The sounds of his shrieks as Tom stood above him, calm and relieved... it was almost too much. It made Hermione queasy to think of it.

He only hurt Ladon Scamander because Ladon Scamander hurt **me** **,** Hermione's inner monologue noted then. Or, at least, he was about to truly hurt me. Tom rescued me.

Hermione growled in frustration, punching her pillow and flopping over onto her side. She could not think now on who - what - Tom Riddle was. He was a monster. He was her saviour. He was dreadfully attractive, and terribly dangerous. He was all of it at once.

Unable to process any of it further, Hermione buried her nose in the suit jacket he'd given her. It was him, there in her bed, when she shut her eyes.

The jacket smelled like rosewood. Like soap and cinnamon and iron. It smelled of him. As Hermione breathed against the jacket, she was soothed, quite against her will, and soon enough she slipped into a truly exhausted sleep.

* * *

Hermione did not interact with Tom Riddle for another week. She avoided him, turning her back to him in the Great Hall at meals and skirting quickly out of classrooms with shared Gryffindor/Slytherin lessons. Maggie and Betty didn't press her on the matter; she'd come back from the Slug Club affair so distraught and messy that they both figured something awful must have happened.

She refused to talk to Ladon Scamander, too, even though the boy approached her a few times and seemed to want to initiate a conversation. Hermione wanted to slap Ladon whenever she saw him. Her mind was still reeling with the memory of how he'd held onto her waist, how he'd Disarmed her and made her feel threatened.

One morning at breakfast, Hermione was chatting with Betty about the newest singing star in the magical world - a handsome young wizard who sang Big Band-style music and reminded Hermione of a young Frank Sinatra.

"I heard him on the wireless the other day - oh, his voice is just dreamy!" Betty gushed, clasping her hands together and grinning. Hermione chuckled at her new friend, who seemed to be particularly boy-crazy.

"Excuse me, Miss Villeneuve."

Hermione looked up at the sound of her assumed name and saw that Ladon Scamander was standing behind her bench at the table. His face looked rather sad, and for a brief moment Hermione forgot that he'd tried to take advantage of her in the corridor. She fixed her face into an angry scowl and said,

"Yes, Ladon?"

He frowned very deeply, a sorrowful look crossing his eyes. "Please, Hermione," he said gently, "I really do need to speak with you."

"Go on, then," she prompted him, and his cheeks coloured with embarrassment.

"In private?" he hissed, and Hermione considered his demand. She was scared to be alone with Ladon, but he seemed truly agitated, shifting on his feet and looking quite upset.

"Leave your wand here," Hermione commanded him. "Betty will hold it for you until we come back. Won't you, Betty?"

Betty Cattermole looked alarmed, but she flashed a wide-eyed glance between Hermione and Ladon and nodded emphatically. She held out her hand, and Ladon reluctantly passed her his wand.

Hermione followed him out into the corridor outside the Great Hall. She could feel Tom Riddle's dark eyes watching her go as she stood from the Gryffindor table and made her way out of the Hall. She didn't care. She ignored him. She'd tried not to think of what she'd done with Tom Riddle the night of the Slug Club party, and she wasn't about to begin perseverating now.

Finally, she and Ladon were alone near the House Points hourglasses. Hermione crossed her arms over her chest and shrugged half-heartedly at Ladon.

"Well?"

"I feel compelled to explain something to you, Hermione," Ladon said. He looked almost confused as he furrowed his brows and bit his lip anxiously. "About the night of the party."

"What is there to explain, Ladon? I was there. I know what happened."

"Well, it's just... I believe I was cursed." Ladon looked around as if someone were going to appear out of thin air, and he lowered his voice. "I believe someone put the Imperius Curse upon me. I would never - never - force myself upon anyone, Hermione. Least of all you. I remember what happened, but I don't remember doing it, if that makes sense. It was almost as though I were watching it happen through my own eyes, but not acting of my own accord at all."

Hermione swallowed heavily and felt quite nauseated. She shut her eyes and shook her head. "I'm sorry I rejected you, Ladon. But you can't just say you were Imperiused. I - I know what you did..."

She was trying to convince herself as much as Ladon, but ultimately she had to let her words die in the air. There was only one person who would do this to Ladon - to curse him and manipulate him to make Hermione hate him. There was only one person who would take advantage of that situation by dragging her into an empty classroom and sticking his fingers inside her body and kissing her furiously.

With a sickening pang of horror, Hermione realised that it was just the sort of thing Lord Voldemort would do.

* * *

Tom Riddle had a terrible headache. He had experienced quite a bit of difficulty falling asleep the previous night, and when he finally did, his sleep was haunted by terrible dreams. He dreamed that he had died, that he was being lowered into the ground in an unmarked casket. The cemetery was on some deserted moor, and no one was there. No one cared that he had died.

Tom had awoken utterly disturbed by the vision, and he'd opened the drawer in his bedside table and touched the black diary there - his Horcrux. He'd managed a bit more sleep after that reassurance, but, even so, he'd awoken feeling drained and annoyed.

His headache wasn't much helped when, at breakfast, he watched Hermione Villeneuve walk out of the Great Hall with Ladon Scamander.

Tom shouldn't care a lick what Hermione did, he knew. He'd managed over the past week to nearly convince himself that he'd been a fool to pursue her. She'd lied to him, after all, about having a witch for a mother. She was just a filthy Mudblood, Tom had told himself for the past seven days. Not worth his time, and not worth the risk.

And yet, it sincerely irked him to watch her leaving the Great Hall with Ladon Scamander. He'd have thought her to be of better sense than that. After what the Scamander boy had done to her in the corridor - after Tom had tortured the boy as punishment - didn't Hermione know better than to go near him? Tom scowled as he watched them leave, stabbing a rasher on his plate angrily.

"What do you think, Tom?" he heard Silas Lestrange ask, and he turned his face to see that four or five of his 'friends' were looking at him expectantly.

"About what?" Tom demanded. Lestrange looked rather disappointed that Tom hadn't been listening to him, but the boy quickly steeled his face and clarified,

"I... erm... I thought I might ask Prunella Parkinson to accompany me to Hogsmeade this weekend. I was wondering what you thought about that."

Tom curled up his top lip into a derisive sneer and said, "Why should I care about the girls you drag to Hogsmeade, Lestrange? I have very little interest in your escapades to the tea shop."

Lestrange's cheeks darkened and he looked quite embarrassed. The other boys snickered, and Tom felt a surge of power at having humiliated Lestrange. He looked back down at his plate and cut a rasher with his fork, pulling it up toward his mouth without another word.

"Tom Riddle? May I speak with you, please?"

He raised his dark eyes in confusion and saw her - Hermione - standing across the table, behind Nott and Mulciber. She had her arms crossed over her chest, and she looked infuriated. Tom cleared his throat quietly and set down his fork, linking his fingers together and calmly staring up at her.

"Go ahead," he said. He was not going to let her make him look like a fool. Not here, not in front of his assembled Slytherins. They were all watching the exchange with rapt attention, waiting to see how Tom was going to handle the impudent girl. He flicked his eyebrows up expectantly at her and watched as she shifted anxiously upon her feet.

"I would like to discuss something with you," she said angrily. "In private, if you please."

Tom nonchalantly picked his fork back up and popped the rasher into his mouth. He chewed carefully, with his mouth shut, taking his time before swallowing the sausage. He sipped leisurely upon his pumpkin juice before drawling,

"As I'm sure you can see, Miss Villeneuve, I am rather busy at the moment with my breakfast. I might have time later in the day -"

"How dare you!" Hermione exclaimed shrilly, and Tom found himself struggling to keep his face impassive. She'd balled her hands into little fists and thrust them down to her sides, and she was practically crackling with rage. Tom's cronies stared at her with wide eyes, and a few glanced back at Tom to see his reaction.

He shrugged. "I'm quite certain I have no idea what you're talking about, Miss Villeneuve," he said, sounding bored to his own ears. She visibly shook before him, her breath coming quick and shallow through her nostrils.

"You Imperiused him," Hermione accused. "You cursed Ladon Scamander to do what he did in the corridor, just so that you could manipulate me. How. Dare. You?"

Tom stared at her quaking, enraged form for a long moment. Then he licked his bottom lip and reached again for his pumpkin juice again and sipped. He dabbed gently at his lips with his napkin and murmured,

"I have no idea what Mr. Scamander's told you, Miss Villeneuve. All I can say is that his actions rather spoke for themselves. Make of that what you please. Now, if you'll allow me to finish my breakfast in peace? Good day."

She stormed off wordlessly at his dismissal, rushing back over to the Gryffindor table and sitting down with a cross huff.

"Did you do it, Tom?" he heard Orion Black ask hesitantly. "Did you really use the Imperius curse on Scamander?"

"Of course I did," Tom said smoothly. He gathered up his rucksack and stood from the bench, looking down into the impressed faces of his lackies. "He did deserve it. That, as well as the Cruciatus he received from me later in the evening. Mulciber, Nott, Lestrange. Let's go. We've got Transfiguration in ten minutes and I've no intention of sparring with Dumbledore today about tardiness."

The three boys he'd summoned stood immediately from the table and followed Tom obediently from the Great Hall. Tom smirked a bit as he realised just how intimidated the other Slytherins had seemed as he'd boasted about using Unforgivables on Ladon Scamander.

In truth, he'd never cast an Imperius curse on the stupid boy, though he rather wished he had done so. He had used the Cruciatus against Scamander, and now that he knew the other boy had lied to Hermione in addition to accosting her, Tom thought he might do it again.

* * *

As usual, Hermione was the only one in the library on Saturday. Some things, she thought, did not change with time. Most of the school had gone down to Hogsmeade, but Hermione was determined to finish her History of Magic essay over the weekend, and she'd buried herself among thick books at a table in the silent library.

'In times of Muggle conflict,' she wrote, 'Dark magic flourishes. It becomes far easier to hide deaths that might otherwise seem quite suspicious. Certain curses may be explained away as the result of Muggle disease, famine, or direct violence from warfare.'

"Hermione?"

She put down her quill when she heard his voice from behind her. "What do you want?" she asked, and there were a few quiet footsteps as Tom Riddle stepped around the table and stood in front of her. She hadn't spoken to him in three days, not since the awful encounter in the Great Hall. But now he'd found her, alone in the library, and she could avoid him no longer.

He looked terribly handsome today, Hermione thought reluctantly. He wasn't wearing his long, black school robe, owing to the fact that it was a Hogsmeade weekend. Instead, he wore a neatly tailored grey suit, with a black tie and a crisp white shirt beneath. Hermione frowned and remembered that she still had his suit jacket from the night of the Slug Club party.

"Your jacket is hanging in my wardrobe," she said absently, moving to pick up her quill again. "I shall have the house-elves deliver it to your dormitory. I apologise for keeping it so long."

"No need to apologise," Tom insisted. Then, after a beat, he said quietly, "I did not cast an Imperius Curse upon Ladon Scamander. Perhaps I should have done that, but I didn't. I came down the corridor and saw him - saw in his mind - what he intended to do to you. I am a Legilimens, Hermione. Perhaps you did not know. I could see it, plainly as the sunrise, in his thoughts. He planned to take you to a quiet place and force himself upon you."

"Rather like you wound up doing, then," Hermione said skeptically. Tom's eyes flashed with indignant anger at that, and he shook his head firmly.

"Perhaps I am mistaken, but I seem to recall you being a very willing participant, Hermione," he reminded her. Hermione felt her cheeks go hot, and she looked down at her essay. Tom continued, "Ladon is lying to you if he's told you I Imperiused him. I did no such thing. I would not be ashamed to have done it, and indeed it would have served my purposes that night quite well to do so. But I didn't."

"If you're unashamed of the accusation, then why bother trying to convince me you didn't do it?" Hermione smiled up at Tom with an artificial grin that she knew must look more like a grimace. Tom sucked on the inside of his cheek and answered in a menacing sort of mumble,

"I do not care for the insinuation that I needed to curse a boy in order to take you into that classroom, Hermione. I should like to think that what happened that night was the result of something more genuine than that."

Hermione was shocked at that response. She frowned up at Tom and shook her head. "But if you didn't curse Ladon, then why -"

"You're a bright witch, Hermione," Tom interjected. He looked frustrated. "Does it not occur to you that perhaps - perhaps - Ladon Scamander is a manipulative and pitiful creature?"

Hermione shook her head stoutly. It had been much easier to believe that Tom Riddle, the future Lord Voldemort, had played her like an instrument. Now she had no idea what to believe.

"I think it very likely that you did curse him, Tom. You Imperiused Ladon Scamander into behaving the way he did so that you could show up and 'save' me. And then I'd be oh-so-very-grateful and take my knickers off for you."

"No!" Tom exclaimed. Hermione stared at him in wide-eyed horror as the air around him crackled with barely-controlled magic. She watched him take a few steadying breaths, and then he shut his eyes and murmured, "You have been terribly misled, Miss Villeneuve, though not by me. Everything I did that night to you was the result of actual interest, I assure you." He opened his eyes and glared down at her. "The next time you have something to discuss with me, I trust you will have more self-control than to storm up to my table in the Great Hall and shout at me in front of my associates."

Hermione felt ill. She had no idea who was betraying her trust, who was pulling invisible strings around her as though she were a marionette. Quite likely, she realised, she needed to be afraid of both Ladon and Tom. Neither one seemed terribly trustworthy at the moment. She scowled up at Tom and demanded,

"Why aren't you in Hogsmeade today, Tom?"

He dragged his teeth over his bottom lip and appeared to consider his response. "I had no interest in going," he said firmly. "Lestrange was going to be flirting ostentatiously with the Parkinson girl; I've no interest in that as a spectator sport. I thought I'd stay here and -"

"Have you ever been to Hogsmeade, Tom?" Hermione gave him a pointed stare. She remembered how Harry had been prohibited from Hogsmeade trips because his aunt and uncle wouldn't sign the permission form. If the rules were anything now like they would be...

She thought they must have been, for Tom's face flushed an angry scarlet and his dark eyes glinted. He finally shook his head no in response to Hermione's question. She did not need details; she knew he'd been raised in a Muggle orphanage and would be unable to get guardian permission for Hogsmeade. Tom's face was crossed with a mixture between embarrassment and rage, but he stayed still and silent.

"I can't go, either," Hermione said lightly. "I don't have anyone to sign the form for me."

"If your parents were Muggles," Tom said hastily, "and you did not attend Beauxbatons, then how is it you know so much magic?"

"I did attend Beauxbatons," Hermione insisted, but she felt her heart thumping in her chest. Tom smiled crookedly down at her and shook his head.

"No, you didnt," he informed her. "I've had someone inquire about that. You never were at Beauxbatons, Miss Villeneuve. Is that your real name, by the way? Who are you, Hermione?"

Hermione pushed back her chair from the table and rose onto shaking feet. She reached for her wand and started to back away from Tom. This was precisely why she'd been avoiding him for the past week and a half. It was foolish to have been physically attracted to him - to the boy who would become a complete monster, if he wasn't one already.

"Leave me alone, Tom," she said, her voice quivering. But Tom had already raised his wand toward her, and it was with a calm and lethal smile that he whispered,

"Legilimens."

* * *

Hermione's mind cracked wide open the moment Tom entered it. He was almost overwhelmed by the volume of memories in her mind, and he worked very quickly to sort through them, to organise them into something useful.

A little girl in a comfortable-looking home, sitting between two adults while an old witch talked to her about a magical place called Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.

Tom realised at once that the little girl was Hermione. So she had been to school here before. When? He kept searching the memories, tossing aside ones that seemed useless, and drawing near ones that seemed helpful.

A shaggy-headed boy, with raven hair, explaining something to that same girl some years later. Telling of an encounter in a cemetery.

'He's back,' the black-haired boy hissed, and the girl's chestnut eyes went wide with fear. 'Voldemort's back.'

Tom flinched, nearly breaking the connection with Hermione's memories. She had crumpled to the library floor and was lying still and silent, but her memories screamed at Tom as they whirled past. Over and over, he heard that name - 'Voldemort' - the name he had fashioned for himself. People spoke in hushed tones about Voldemort. Only a few dared to say his name at all. Most of the talk centered around misdeeds and murders and torture and fear.

It immediately registered in Tom's mind that he was seeing the future... what were memories to Hermione had not yet happened to Tom. She was from that time, he realised with a start. She had time-traveled here. Why?

'Wingardium leviosa.'

Another dark-haired wizard, this one decades older than the boy with the eyeglasses. This one looked dour and depressed as he levitated Hermione's body out of a classroom... the scene shifted, and then Hermione was standing in a dining room, elegant and lavish. A grey-faced monster of a man was moving toward her, talking about sending her back fifty-three years. The hideous, snakelike man leaned down and kissed her, and a scent flooded Hermione's nostrils.

Rosewood. Iron. Soap and cinnamon. The way she'd described the smell of him, of Tom Riddle. Only, this wasn't Tom Riddle. It was Voldemort.

Then Hermione was flying away from the room, yanked backward by her navel when she touched a wax-sealed scroll. She landed with a thud on the wet grass outside Hogwarts.

Tom was suddenly pushed forcefully from Hermione's mind, and he stared down with his mouth agape at her. She'd pulled herself up onto her knees and was sobbing on the ground, covering her face with her hands.

"Get out!" she shrieked hysterically. "Get out of my head!"

Tom stumbled backward a bit, reaching absently for a chair to steady himself. He kept staring at Hermione for a very long time, unable to articulate a coherent thought well enough to question her about any of what he'd seen. She just sat and cried, shaking her head and moaning hopelessly.

"Go on, then!" she said at last, looking up at him with red-rimmed eyes. Her pretty bottom lip quivered fiercely, and Tom was rather taken aback when she said, "I'm sure that's why I was meant to come here. To show you everything, so you'd know what was coming. So you'd be prepared. It already happened, all of it, so it must happen. You yourself told me so. You said there could be no deviation from the timeline."

She shook her head piteously and rose on shaking legs to stand. Then she puffed out her chest a little and balled her hands into fists at her sides. Her wand lay forgotten upon the floor. "I'm ready," she whispered, and Tom eyed her with confusion. He was confused about more than one thing at the moment, but most of all by her current actions.

"Ready for what?" he demanded, his voice icy and detached. Hermione shut her eyes tightly and sighed.

"Go ahead. Kill me. You've seen the truth. You've seen what happens. This is where I end, isn't it? It's why you were talking about remembering me, because I'd been gone for so long. Because you killed me. Here. Now. So go ahead. Do it."

Tom fingered the handle of his wand anxiously in his right hand and sneered, "Why on Earth would I want to do a thing like that?"

She was laughing then, out of nowhere. She tipped her head back and roared with unexplainable laughter. Tom nervously shifted upon his feet and clipped,

"What's so funny?"

"That's the exact same way you reacted... that you're going to react... when I tell you to kill me fifty-three years from now. And, you know, a few weeks ago. It's all relative, I suppose, as to when it happened. Happens. Will happen."

Hermione laughed again, sounding shrill and maniacal. Tears continued to stream down her cheeks, and Tom felt quite ill at ease.

"I'm not going to kill you, Hermione. Is that even your name?"

She finally lowered her face to his. She looked serene, as though she'd accepted some awful fate and was approaching her death with calm grace. Tom squeezed his wand again as she nodded and said peacefully, "Yes. My name is Hermione Granger. I will be born on the nineteenth of September in the year 1979. I'm a Muggle-born. I was sorted into Gryffindor upon my arrival at Hogwarts. My best friend was... will be... a boy called Harry Potter. He'll be famous for defeating you with a rebounded curse when he's a baby."

She nodded and took a quivering breath. She stepped toward Tom, and he recoiled and took a small step backward. Hermione held out her hands to him, cupping his jaw in her palms. He flinched at her touch, not having any idea what to make of her. She stared him straight in his eyes and said smoothly,

"You'll get everything you want, Tom. Power, authority... you will have it all. And then you will lose it, when a little boy sends your own curse back at you. You will disappear, and then you will make a triumphant return, albeit in a terribly decimated body. And in the middle of your new reign of terror, you will send a man called Severus Snape to retrieve me from Hogwarts, and you will send me back fifty-three years in time for me to come here and tell you all of this."

"Why?" Tom hissed. He reached up and wrenched her hands off of his cheeks, feeling rather inexplicably ill. "Why would I fetch you and send you back in time? Who are you to me then?"

She laughed once more, and she shrugged helplessly. Her eyes looked sad and amused all at once. "I have no idea. I didn't think I meant anything to the great Lord Voldemort," she admitted. "He... you... will explain it to me simply that I was here, in the year 1944, and so you must send me back again. It's like a cycle of inevitabilities. I will have no more control of it than you will. But I suppose I've served my purpose here. I've shown you your future, and in doing so I have almost certainly signed a great many death warrants. Please, Tom. Go ahead and kill me now."

"I am not going to kill you," Tom repeated, clenching his teeth tightly together and feeling very overwhelmed. He thought back to the Potions lesson with the Amortentia, how he'd smelled a girl he didn't know and become utterly entranced by her. He thought back to the sight of her lying upon the grass in the courtyard, to how he'd placed the lilac bouquet beside her in surrender. He thought of what she tasted like, the feel of her womanhood clenching around his fingers. He thought of what her eyes looked like when she smiled, when she was frightened, when she was concentrating hard on something.

Suddenly he found himself rather unaffected by her truth. She was a liar. She was a Mudblood. She was a time traveler.

And he was completely besotted with her, whether he wanted to be or not. He put one hand upon Hermione's shoulder and watched her startle when he touched her.

"I don't care about the future," he lied, for it felt like the correct thing to say. "I don't care that you've already lived it, nor that it's your true home. I don't care. I will carve my own future, and if it matches your memories, then so be it. Truly, Hermione... Miss Granger... all I desire at the moment is to possess you, to dote upon you, to kiss and touch you and speak with you every chance I get. You hate me, and I can clearly see why. I don't much care about your memories of me. It seems that will be a different man. But right now, this is me. The boy standing before you, completely and utterly taken with you. You have ensnared by every sense, Miss Granger, in a rather disagreeably unequal attraction. No. I am not going to kill you. If you will permit me, I intend to kiss you."

She stared up at him in fear, and her brown eyes glistened with what seemed for a tortuous moment like hatred. But then something inside of her cracked, and Tom watched her eyes become resigned. He put his fingers to her cheek and she nodded against him. "All right, then," she whispered, and he pulled her up so that he could taste her again.

She tasted like vanilla, like lemon. She tasted exquisite. He never wanted to stop kissing her, but at last they both needed to breathe.

"It seemed strange to me," he panted against her face, "that my older self would send you back in time just to preserve what seems to be a very imperfect timeline. But now I understand. I won't do it to ensure I make the same mistakes I've already made, though of course I see those mistakes must be made in order for you to make your here. No... I will preserve that imperfect timeline so that I can have this - you, here, with me, now."

She mewled something in protest, but Tom silenced her words with another ferocious kiss, and this time he had no intention of letting her go.

* * *

Hermione had no idea what was happening until she realised she was walking backward, pushed gently by Tom's hands as he furiously kissed her. The backs of her thighs finally hit something, and then Tom was gripping her by the waist and hoisting her upward.

She yanked her mouth away from his and saw that he'd hauled her up to sit upon the little countertop beneath a bookshelf, and she whimpered a little as the reality of the situation sank into her head. They were snogging like mad, here in the library, where anyone could walk in and find them. Despite the danger, or perhaps because of the danger, Hermione had never been so aroused in her life. She met Tom's dark eyes and saw a simmering heat in his that sent a shock of want through her core.

"You don't care?" she asked him in a panting whisper. "You don't care that I'm from -"

"No." He shook his head firmly. Then, he corrected himself. "That is, of course I care. I do not mind, however. In a way, I'm... rather glad. It explains a bit. And you've shown me very valuable information. You've proven to be immensely useful, Hermione, despite the maddening attraction I have toward you."

Hermione frowned and licked her bottom lip. "I didn't want you to see those memories," she said with regret, shaking her head. "I don't want you to become that man."

Tom smirked at her rather crookedly. "Don't think about that," he commanded her, and Hermione wanted to protest, but he said, "Just think about this."

Then his fingers were gliding up her thigh, beneath the hem of her skirt, working their way toward her drenched womanhood. Hermione shut her eyes and shivered. She shook her head and croaked, "I can't be driven by my libido, Tom. I know the truth about you. And now you know the truth about me."

"Oddly enough, the truth about you has done very little to dampen my desire," Tom said matter-of-factly. He crushed Hermione's mouth with a brief kiss, his lips searing against hers. He snatched her hand and pressed it to the front of his trousers, as if to prove that he wanted her. Hermione felt the sizeable bulge there and gasped into his kiss. Tom pulled away and rather glared at her as he continued, "And you, it seems, have known the 'truth' about me for quite some time. Yet you still kissed me on the Viaduct. You went into that classroom with me and you finished around my fingers. And you're here now. And you like it, don't you?"

He pulled her knickers down roughly, nearly causing Hermione to topple over where she sat on the shelf. She steadied herself by reaching up and pressing her palms flat against the books behind her, feeling dreadfully aroused by their forbidden activities. Tom's fingers delved into her, his thumb working circles on her clit as the bottom of his palm mashed her entrance. Hermione cried out desperately, gripping the books behind her for support.

"Say you like it," Tom panted through clenched teeth. She was almost afraid of his arousal, for he seemed so worked up that she thought he was losing control of himself. He wrenched his eyes shut and hissed through his teeth again, "Tell me you want me, Hermione. Say you like it when I touch you."

Hermione hesitated for the briefest of moments, but then she felt herself nearing the same cliff he'd thrown her from in the deserted classroom. She moaned helplessly and nodded, "I like it. I like it when you touch me. It feels... very good, Tom. I should hate you. I did hate you... but I do want you. Please..."

She said that again, 'please,' over and over, though she had no idea what she was begging him to do. He kissed her as she came, and his fingers curled and hooked inside of her as her walls clenched and spasmed around them. Hermione's ears were ringing and hot, and the room spun dramatically. She kept begging him, 'please, please, Tom,' even as she came down from her high. He tore his fingers from her sensitized entrance and met her eyes with a steely glare.

"Please what?" he whispered, sounding rather unhinged. His nostrils flared and he panted furiously. "What do you want me to do to you, Hermione?"

He was making her beg because he liked to feel in control, she knew. She found that she finally did not care, that she'd resigned herself to who he was, at least for now. She played up the power trip that seemed to be arousing him so much, chewing on her bottom lip and looking wide-eyed at him through her lashes.

"Please take me," she murmured softly. "I want to be yours."

Tom's dark eyes flashed madly and he flinched at her words. She could tell he was trying not to groan or show any sense of pleasure - he liked to look impassive and bored in almost every situation. But he was coming apart at the seams. It was plain as day to Hermione. She thought she knew just how to make him dissolve for her while still giving him the illusion of control.

"I want you to the first man to have me," Hermione whispered, putting her palm against his cheek. "Claim me, Tom. Make me yours. Please?"

He sighed, his breath shuddering unevenly as he squeezed his eyes shut and swayed a bit where he stood. Finally, he looked at her again and nodded slowly. "You are a very good girl," he told her, and Hermione felt a throbbing again between her thighs. She enjoyed seeing him like this, mad with want but maintaining his dominance. It was... sexy. Very sexy. She couldn't help but think it was.

He pulled her knickers the rest of the way off, balling them up after they slipped past her feet and placing them haphazardly beside Hermione on the shelf. Then his fingers worked quickly at the placket of his trousers, and soon enough Hermione saw his manhood spring forth. She marveled at it for a moment, for she'd never seen a man's organ in person before. For a brief and horrifying instant, she wondered how on Earth it was supposed to fit inside of her body. She gulped and raised her wide eyes to his to see his cheeks flushed self-consciously.

"Please take me, Tom," she whispered again. "I want you, very badly."

"Good girl," he said again, wrapping his fingers around himself and shivering. He used his knee to part Hermione's thighs, and then he moved closer to her. Hermione felt a dull pressure at her entrance when he pushed the tip of his cock inside of her. He reached for his wand and aimed it at her belly, muttering a protective spell. Then he set his wand down with quivering fingers and placed a hand on either side of Hermione's thighs. "This is going to hurt," he informed her. "You probably will not enjoy it this time. I'll make it better for you next time."

His voice was icy and distant again, the way he liked to sound to others. He didn't apologise for the fact that it often hurt girls to lose their virginity. He just promised to make it feel nice the next time. Hermione startled at that. Next time? Was this to be a regular occurrence?

She nodded numbly at him and whispered, "Go ahead, Tom." She snaked her arms around his neck and buried her fingers in the hair on the back of his head. She took a shaking breath and readied herself, but she still cried out in agony when he pushed into her rather harshly.

He hissed and groaned, now completely uncontrolled, as he sank into her. He stopped for a moment when he'd thrust past her barrier and was completely sheathed within her. Hermione felt her eyes burning with tears from the pain and from the knowledge of what he'd done to her. But there was something else there, cutting through the stinging she felt. It was want, hot and pulsing and wet and insistent. She wanted him, even though she knew she shouldn't.

"More, Tom. Please," she whimpered, and he obliged by pulling himself out a few inches and then slowly pushing back in. His dark eyes glinted and shimmered as he stared resolutely at her, his breath coming in slow shakes through his nostrils. He began to slowly push himself in and out, in and out. With every thrust, the pain decreased, and soon enough Hermione was keening his name in a low growl of desire.

He never sped up his movements, never got rough or uncontrolled in his steady, slow pistoning. Instead, he just breathed quivering huffs in time with the rolling of his hips. At long last, he pushed himself all the way into her, eliciting a little shriek of surprise from Hermione. She felt him press his forehead to hers, and her eyes crossed as she watched his face twist into an odd expression resembling physical pain. He was pulsing and twitching inside of her, and she felt the warm pumping of his seed. She tightened the grip of her hands in his hair and whispered his name a few times.

He pulled out of her, bringing a little stream of ejaculate with him and making Hermione feel abruptly dirty. He reached for his wand and cleaned them each up, the blood from her barrier and their mixed fluids disappearing as he charmed them both. He wordlessly tucked his softening member back into his trousers and buttoned himself back up, straightening his tie and smoothing his mussed hair. He handed Hermione her discarded knickers, and she blushed with embarrassment as she pulled them back on. Tom stepped away from the shelf, clearing his throat a bit and helping Hermione down.

"So now what?" Hermione found herself asking. She shrugged helplessly and said, "You forced your way into my mind and saw the monster that you will become, the terrible man I've spent years of my own life despising. I should hate you now, too, but I can't. I want to. But I can't. What am I meant to do, then, Tom? Am I supposed to fall in love with you?"

He chuckled rather cruelly and touched her cheek. He shook his head slowly and flashed Hermione his trademark crooked smile. "No, Hermione," he muttered, "you should not fall in love with me. Love is a foolish endeavour, and it's been the downfall of countless people throughout history who might have otherwise accomplished some very meaningful things. No. You shouldn't love me, and I know you never could, anyway. I have no desire to be loved, and I am not a loving person myself."

"Then what is this?" Hermione gestured from herself to Tom and back again, desperately wanting to answers from him. "What just happened, then? That... this... is not supposed to happen without love, you know!"

She was trying to convince herself as much as him, and he looked rather amused as he grinned down at her. "I have never given much credence to what is 'supposed to happen,' Miss Villen - Miss Granger. I only pay attention to what I want, and today I wanted you. And you did very well indeed."

He kissed her forehead and started to walk away, but Hermione felt anger boiling up in her chest at his dismissal.

"Stop!" she cried, brazenly reaching for his arm. He looked rather shocked when she whirled him around, and his eyes flashed oddly down at her. Hermione stomped her foot petulantly and said in a cracked sob, "You've just... you've just deflowered me, and I'm meant to accept that you've got no feelings for me whatsoever? You truly are awful, you know that?"

Tom stared at her for a long moment, cocking his head to the side and squaring his jaw. He swallowed visibly and then said, "I did not say I had no feelings for you. I said that love is a foolish thing that I will not permit here, in either direction. There's a difference."

"Is there?" Hermione sniffed, and he nodded firmly.

"There is." Then he turned and walked briskly from the library, leaving Hermione disheveled and crying between the bookshelves.

* * *

Tom sat alone in the Slytherin boys' dormitory, waiting for his 'associates' to make their way back from Hogsmeade. He stared out the window into the Black Lake, wishing there were some way to easily Obliviate himself without risking his sanity. He needed to forget what he'd seen in Hermione's head. He needed to forget that he himself had apparently sent her back in time, and he needed to forget the image of himself as a grey and broken man clinging to power. He needed to forget what it had felt like to bury himself inside of her, ignoring the fact that she was a liar and a terrible risk to him.

Then, Tom realised, cocking his head as he gazed at the water through the windows, he didn't need to forget any of that. Indeed, he needed to know it. He needed to remember his future through her, as it were, in order to achieve it. Perhaps, he pondered, he could do things even greater than he'd done - would do - now that he was armed with Hermione's memories as a guide. She might disappear one day, of course, for the course of his actions would certainly have some influence over whether or not she traveled back in time, or was born in the first place.

But that was a risk Tom was willing to take. He craved power; he craved authority. It was the best feeling in the world, he thought, to strike fear and intimidation into the hearts of others. And now Hermione had given him the ability to do that. She could show him even more - could show him his mistakes and where he'd gone wrong - and guide his actions so that he could achieve more than she'd seen him do.

Yes, she might vanish into nonbeing, as if he'd swept his wand over her and murmured, 'Evanesco.' But she would be the instrument through which he achieved glory, and for that he would be eternally grateful.

* * *

Lord Voldemort stood alone in the dining room at Malfoy Manor, staring at the spot from which Hermione had disappeared.

He sighed through the slits where his nose ought to be and thought about her for a long moment. It had been jarring to see her as a teenaged girl again. He'd seen her as a child, of course; he'd been monitoring her for years in preparation of sending her back in time. And he'd seen her older than she looked now, for in his own past she had aged into a beautiful young woman.

When he'd kissed her, Voldemort had tasted the same thing he had decades earlier. Vanilla and lemon, the delicious mingling of sweet and tart that made him crave more. But he'd pulled away from what he was sure would be their final kiss, knowing that she was afraid of him and that he disgusted her in this form. He'd seen this kiss - tonight's kiss - in her memories many years before, and he'd waited for what felt like an eternity for it.

She'd been gone from him for too long before tonight. It had been far, far too long since he'd smelled the rain on her skin, since he'd handed her a bouquet of lilacs and given her his handsome crooked grin. He had missed her, as much as it pained him to even think that. She had been his weakness for many years now; he'd spent decades waiting for her to be born, waiting for her to grow up 'again,' just so that he could kiss her one final time. He'd known tonight's kiss was coming, known that she would disappear from him when he handed her the parchment with the wax seal.

But he hadn't expected for her flavour of vanilla and lemon to elicit the response it did in him. He was glad, in a way, that she'd melted into the air the way she'd done. Voldemort had forgotten how susceptible he was to Hermione, how much he'd relied on her during his early years.

He stared into the fireplace, swaying a bit on his feet. Was the room spinning? What had come over him? Voldemort suddenly felt most unwell, and he called out for Wormtail before clutching onto the back of a dining chair for support. He called out again, his voice sounding desperate to his own ears.

"Wormtail! Come now. I need you here now."

Something was wrong. Something was terribly, terribly wrong. He was dizzy and lightheaded and nauseated.

Then the room went black, and he was nothing. He weighed nothing; he felt nothing. There was blank emptiness for a moment, and then Voldemort opened his eyes again.

The spinning had stopped. His nausea had abated. But when he glanced down at his hands, they were no longer grey. His flesh was almost rosy in its warmth, and though there were wrinkles on the backs of his hands, he felt flush with health. Feeling panicked, Voldemort rushed over to the window and looked at his translucent reflection.

He was whole again. Aged and wrinkled and not very handsome, but whole. Human and warm, and he felt utterly powerful. He stared at his reflection, at his dark familiar eyes, and suddenly realised he must have never lost his body in the first place. Something had happened - something in the timeline had been altered - and his own past wasn't true anymore.

He turned over his shoulder (when had movement become so easy and painless?) at the sound of the door to the dining room opening. The door pushed open slowly, creaking a bit, and Voldemort waited to see the face of Wormtail. He prepared to scold his servant for not answering his call for help more promptly.

But Wormtail wasn't there. There was a woman in the threshold, a woman with an elegant grey chignon and luxurious dark green robes. She was old, like him, but very, very beautiful. Her eyes were the colour of warm honey.

"Hermione," Voldemort whispered in alarm. He wanted to step near her, to take her face in his hands and smell her, taste her. But he felt frozen where he stood. She smiled warmly at him and said in a gentle voice,

"Good evening, husband."


	3. Chapter 3

Hermione sighed and shut the thick copy of A History of Flying that had been opened before her. She'd just read a passage about how the game of Quidditch evolved, and she'd been struck with a memory of reading that same passage as a third-year student.

'You see, Hermione? Quidditch is historically significant. What do you have to say about the silly little game now?' Ron Weasley had grinned mockingly at Hermione, and she'd stuck her tongue out at him.

'Speaking of Quidditch,' Harry had said, 'I've got practise in ten minutes. Got to run, or I shall be late.'

'We'll put your books away for you, Harry,' Ron had said, and Hermione had nodded in agreement. Harry had smiled warmly down at his friends and thanked them, leaving Hermione and Ron alone in the quiet library.

Now, Hermione glanced up to see that the bookshelves looked very much the same as they would fifty years in the future. Hogwarts was, in many ways, an artefact unto itself. Things changed very slowly in the wizarding world, Hermione knew. Indeed, sometimes she forgot that she was in the year 1944, because Hogwarts felt so familiar despite the time shift. The only major tangible difference was the painful absence of Harry and Ron, and the presence of -

"Tom Riddle just walked in," Betty Cattermole hissed across the table to Hermione. The blonde girl spruced her curls and cleared her throat lightly. She sighed and said under her breath, "Oh, he's very handsome, isn't he? He's coming right this way! Look busy."

Hermione turned over her shoulder and saw Tom striding confidently toward their table. As he approached, he locked his eyes onto Hermione's and smoothly pulled his wand from his robe. She panicked for a brief moment, wondering if he was going to hex her for some reason. She hadn't spoken to him in over a week, for things had felt terribly awkward in the wake of their encounter on the bookshelves. As Tom continued walking toward Hermione, he moved his wand in a little circular motion and murmured,

"Eludebas syringa."

Hermione's mouth fell open in surprise as vivdly purple lilacs appeared before Tom. He elegantly took the stems of the flowers from midair and moved them down to his side. Maggie Prewett gasped softly at the sight of the Conjured flowers. Hermione felt her cheeks flush warm with embarrassment and something else as he pulled up at their table.

"Good afternoon Miss Cattermole, Miss Prewett... Hermione." Tom nodded at each of the girls in turn, and Hermione noted the formality with which he greeted Maggie and Betty compared to the first name basis Hermione had been granted. Tom flicked up his eyebrows and said rather distantly, "Lovely day, isn't it? Too lovely, perhaps, for three young ladies to be trapped in the library."

"We've got essays due for History of Magic," Maggie Prewett explained, her voice coming out rushed and too loud. Tom smirked a bit at her and nodded once.

"How studious you all are. Professor Binns will no doubt be extraordinarily appreciative of your efforts."

It was a joke, Hermione realised at once. Professor Binns was a ghost, after all, and never showed the least interest in any student, much less how much work had been put into an assignment. She rolled her eyes up at Tom and said,

"Ha - ha, Tom. Who are the flowers for?" She pinched her lips in a challenging fashion, and Tom glanced down to the lilacs in his hand. He held them up and offered them to Hermione. His face was quite serious as he said,

"They're for you, of course."

Of course. Hermione felt an odd flutter in her stomach as she took the lilac bouquet from Tom's hand. Their fingers brushed against one another when she did, and she thought back to what his fingers had felt like inside her body. She coughed a little, trying to mask the way her cheeks had flushed red, and she mumbled,

"Thank you, Tom. They're lovely."

Betty and Maggie were watching the exchange with rapt attention. Betty, Hermione noticed, looked positively green with envy, whilst Maggie simply looked a bit perplexed.

"Hermione, I wonder if you would honour me by taking a walk about the grounds on this beautiful afternoon."

Tom curled up one side of his mouth as he asked Hermione the question, and she marveled at his lack of insistence. The other times he'd 'invited' her for a walk, he'd been quite pushy about it, but now he was talking about being honoured by her presence. Hermione nodded numbly and said,

"I would like that."

"We'll put your books away for you, Hermione," Maggie Prewett said very quickly, and Hermione looked to see that she and Betty were both flashing her marveled expressions. Hermione nodded and smiled, remembering how she'd offered the same thing to Harry once upon a time. Maggie continued, "I shall bring your work back to Gryffindor Tower. You go! Enjoy yourself."

Hermione murmured her thanks and turned back over her shoulder to see that Tom was holding out a hand to her. Her lips parted in wonder as she took his hand and rose from her chair, bringing the lilac bouquet with her. She expected Tom to release her hand once she'd stood, that he was only helping her up to encourage their departure. But he never let go of her hand, instead pulling her gently toward the doors of the library. Hermione spared one final glance over her shoulder toward Betty and Maggie and saw that they were grinning foolishly at her and nodding their encouragement.

Hermione sighed a little, wondering if Betty and Maggie would be so supportive if they knew what was going to happen to Tom Riddle in the coming decades. She knew full well what was to become of him, but it didn't stop her from holding his hand down the many flights of stairs until they reached the entrance to a courtyard.

Tom guided Hermione to a stone bench and encouraged her to sit down upon it. Hermione did, placing her lilac bouquet carefully upon her lap. Tom sat smoothly beside her and said,

"It truly is beautiful weather today, isn't it?"

"You didn't bring me out here to talk about the sunshine, did you, Tom?" Hermione quirked an eyebrow at him disbelievingly. He smiled coldly and shook his head.

"No, of course not." Then he lowered his eyes and sighed a little, as if he were trying to figure out what to say. He glanced around them and ensured they were quite alone, and then he raised his dark eyes to meet Hermione's. She shivered at the depth of his gaze and tried not to look away. Tom's voice was steady and detached when he spoke. "At dinner this evening, Headmaster Dippet will announce that Ladon Scamander has gone missing. A search party will almost certainly organised, but they won't find him."

Hermione's blood suddenly went cold in her veins. Her breath and heart seemed to stop, and her skin prickled with fear. She struggled to speak, and when she did, it was with a fiercely trembling whisper.

"What did you do, Tom?"

"What I had to do," he answered, without the slightest hint of remorse. Hermione's eyes burned and she felt abruptly nauseated. She knew full well what Tom Riddle - Voldemort - could and would do to those who had crossed his path. She was not about to sit here and demand to know why he'd apparently killed Ladon Scamander. That wouldn't do any good. And, anyway, she wasn't sure she wanted to know his thought process on the matter. Instead, she licked her bottom lip carefully and asked,

"Will you tell what happened?"

Tom reached to take Hermione's hand in his. She flinched and yanked her hand away, as if she'd been burned by his touch. She was not about to sit on a bench and hold hands with a murderer. Tom watched her recoil, and he sat up straighter before he said,

"I confronted him about the night of the Slug Club party."

"Oh, for heaven's sake, Tom," Hermione moaned softly, shaking her head. "I've moved past that incident. Why couldn't you?"

"I saw what he meant to do to you," Tom insisted, and his voice sounded lethal with anger. "I saw it in his mind. Do you doubt my ability to do that?"

"No. Of course I don't." Hermione huffed a bit as she remembered the ease and force with which Tom had wormed his way into her memories.

"He was going to do awful things to you, Hermione, and I could not allow that. He lied to you about being Imperiused so that you would trust him again. He still had terrible plans for you, and he had every intention of carrying them out."

"But why?" Hermione demanded. She frowned as a tear fell stubbornly from her eye, and she swiped it away roughly. "He seemed so kind, so gentle. Charming. I simply can't believe -"

"You are lying, Hermione, to yourself and to me, if you insist that it is impossible for monsters to be charming." Tom seemed very cross then, and Hermione closed her mouth. She knew he was speaking not only of Ladon Scamander but of himself. She shut her eyes for a moment and shook her head.

"So, you confronted him," she prompted. Then, opening her eyes, she shrugged and asked, "And then what?"

"And then," Tom began, through clenched teeth, "I demanded he swear never to speak to you again, much less put a hand upon you. But the fool refused. Not out loud, of course. He lied to me and made his promise - out of fear. But I could see straight through his mind, into his plans, which he had no intention of terminating. There was no other option, Hermione."

Hermione whirled over her shoulder and lowered her head, feeling terribly ill all of a sudden. She actually gagged a bit and feared she would vomit, but she heard Tom mutter,

"Vertigine Terminatur."

Hermione's dizzy nausea abated at once, and she turned back to scowl at Tom. "Please do not try to calm me now, Tom," she said hotly. "I ought to feel ill, you know. Hearing about this."

"I have no desire to see you be sick upon the grass," Tom intoned rather boredly. "Shall I tell you what happened next?"

Hermione gritted her teeth and nodded reluctantly. Tom cleared his throat a bit and said softly, "I did cast the Imperius Curse on him then, to lure him out into the Forbidden Forest. And then there was a green flash of light and Scamander fell to the forest floor. I Vanished his body into nonbeing, so there is nothing to find. He will appear to have simply gone missing."

Hermione's mind whizzed and juddered as she realised something awful. "Hang on," she said quickly, shaking her head in disbelief. "Ladon Scamander was - was supposed to be - the father of Rolf Scamander. He was - would be - a student at Hogwarts with me. If you've killed Ladon Scamander, then how could there be a Rolf?"

"Well, I suppose there won't be a Rolf Scamander," Tom shrugged. "Unless the boy meant something significant -"

"But that isn't the point, Tom!" Hermione nearly shrieked, flying to her feet and beginning to pace anxiously before the bench. The lilac bouquet was flung from her lap onto the grass, and Tom frowned disapprovingly down at the flowers. Hermione clutched at her hair and gasped, "It doesn't matter how 'insignificant' a person is. You've changed the timeline, don't you see? I have a real memory of Ladon Scamander's son Rolf, who wouldn't be born for over thirty years. But you've eraseda person, Tom! Don't you see? By killing Ladon, you've changed the reality of the future. Someone who was supposed to be there - someone who was there for me - won't be now, because of what you've done. You weren't supposed to the change the timeline. Nothing was meant to change..."

"Don't you suppose I've thought of that?" Tom hissed, and Hermione stopped in her tracks to look down at him in horror. He scowled up at her and continued, "You have memories of things that happened to you in the first eighteen years of your life. That does not mean that the timeline can not be altered. Your timeline continues here, you understand? Your own life is linear, but you've jumped around a bit. That's all."

"But, Tom, there will be terrible consequences -" Hermione began, her heart thudding in her chest. Tom shook his head firmly and interrupted her.

"You showed me myself sending you back, Hermione. I was a grey-faced monster; something terrible had happened to me. I intend to carve a more successful path this time."

"No. No, Tom. It isn't all about you. You've erased Rolf Scamander from the future."

"And perhaps in eliminating Ladon Scamander, I've saved dozens of lives. The boy was clearly deranged. You have no idea what Ladon did between now and when you came back in time, do you?"

"No," Hermione admitted, wringing her hands in front of her. "But I'm certain he didn't murder anyone..."

"Are you?" Tom demanded. "Are you certain?"

Hermione felt as though she were going to faint. Tom was right, in a way, that changing the timeline as she remembered it did not necessarily mean the elimination of the future. More significantly, there may be positive things that came of timeline changes. But Hermione felt terribly ill at ease, thinking of that.

"What do you suppose happened in the moment after I sent you back in time?" Tom posited after a long moment. Hermione shrugged helplessly and shook her head. Tom said with feigned patience, "The first eighteen years of your life happened to you as you remember them, Hermione. That doesn't mean they have to happen that way for everyone else. Myself included."

Hermione stared at Tom for a very long time, feeling rather terrified. He had no remorse about killing a boy. He had no remorse about eliminating real human beings from potentially existing. And he appeared to care only about the trajectory of his success. Hermione stared at the lilacs on the grass and shook her head, letting tears flow freely from her eyes.

"You're right," she said quietly, "Monsters can be very, very charming."

She dashed from the courtyard without another word, determined that she would never speak to Tom Riddle again.

* * *

Lord Voldemort stared at Hermione, feeling his lips part in shock. She was aged, appearing approximately seventy years in age. So, he wondered, did that mean that she'd been alive all this time? That she had been with him?

"You've just sent me back, haven't you?" Hermione smiled at him, her chestnut eyes crinkling warmly. She swept toward him, her elegant robes sweeping behind her a bit as she did.

Voldemort nodded hesitantly at her. "How are you -" he began, but she held up a hand to silence him.

"Timeline shifts," she said simply, giving him a little nod. "The reality was altered by choices you made, Tom."

Voldemort cringed at the sound of his old first name. No one had called him Tom - without seeing a flash of green light in retaliation - for decades. At least, not that he remembered. He glanced down at his pinkish hands and turned them over in wonder.

"My skin," he noted softly. "It was grey and scaled. I was... barely human."

"I remember," Hermione nodded, and Voldemort could read the understanding on her face. She continued, "I also remember fifty years with you in this body. You made different choices, Tom."

Voldemort was suddenly overcome with a strong desire to kiss Hermione, to test whether she was real. He strode briskly toward her, his movements feeling light and easy. He paused in front of her and frowned down into her kind-looking face.

"You were taken from me," he announced delicately. "Only a few years after you came to Hogwarts. You were gone, forever, and I spent the next fifty years knowing I would never see you as an old woman. Knowing that all I would get was tonight, in this room, sending you back to spend a precious few years -"

"Not this time," Hermione insisted, shaking her head. "You got everything you wanted this time, Tom. Power, and wealth, and authority. And this time you never lost it."

Lord Voldemort was delighted to find in the subsequent long moment that she still tasted beautifully - lemon and vanilla - and that she smelled of lilacs in a late spring rain.

* * *

By the beginning of June, Hermione had very nearly forgotten what it had felt like to want Tom Riddle. She'd nearly forgotten the taste of him, the feel of his body on and inside of hers. She'd nearly forgotten what it was like to accept Conjured lilacs from him, and what it meant to bury her face in his borrowed suit jacket.

She'd nearly forgotten that she was in the same building as the person who would become the most feared Dark wizard of all time. She'd nearly forgotten all of it, until the final week of classes.

She had become so busy studying for and taking final exams that she'd entirely forgotten that she had nowhere to go for the summer holidays. One very warm Wednesday morning, as she handed in her Transfiguration final exam to Professor Dumbledore, she lingered before his desk.

"Excuse me, Professor," she began cautiously, and Professor Dumbledore looked up from the parchment he was marking.

"Yes, Miss Villeneuve?"

Hermione had noticed over the past several months that Professor Dumbledore treated her with almost calculated distance, when he interacted with her at all. It almost seemed to Hermione as though Professor Dumbledore avoided her. This felt odd, given how she knew she would interact with him later in his life. She cleared her throat and said in a quiet murmur,

"Professor, sir, I was wondering if I might speak with you about the summer holidays. You see, it's - erm, my aunt and uncle, sir... they're going on holiday to Switzerland, and..."

Dumbledore smiled knowingly and nodded. "It is exceedingly rare for anyone to go on holiday at the moment, Miss Villeneuve. Even witches and wizards. Owing to the scale of the Muggle war, international movement is nearly impossible."

He peered over his spectacles at her, as if to make the point that he knew full well she hadn't spent any time outside Hogwarts in this era. Hermione felt her cheeks colour and she stammered,

"W-well, they're going away. My aunt and uncle. And... erm... it's just -"

"Since you have nowhere to go for the summer holidays, Miss Villeneuve, I believe you will find Headmaster Dippet's announcement at dinner this evening both helpful and informative. If you've finished your exam, my dear, then you are dismissed. It has been an honour and a pleasure to instruct you in Transfigurations. Enjoy your summer."

He looked back down at his parchment then, and Hermione knew she'd been sent away. She sighed lightly and murmured thanks to Dumbledore before turning and striding out of the classroom.

He was right. That night at dinner, Hermione was pleasantly surprised by the words Headmaster Dippet spoke after getting the students' attention.

"Due to the increasing severity of the Muggle conflict," Headmaster Dippet began, "The staff and I have determined that it would be in many students' best interest to make Hogwarts available for lodging over the summer holidays. Many of you, I know, do not feel safe and secure in returning to your homes this summer. Because it is Unplottable and has myriad Muggle repelling charms, however, I can assure you that Hogwarts is a safe haven. Owls have been sent to all guardians notifying them of this offer. If you wish to write to your parents to discuss the possibility of staying at Hogwarts for the summer, please feel free to use the school owls in the owlery. All you need do to stay is to notify your Head of House. Now... no more talk of such bleak things. Enjoy your meals."

There was a flutter of conversation as Headmaster Dippet sat back down and the students processed the idea of lodging at Hogwarts without the burden of lessons. Many seemed excited by the offer.

"Well, Hermione," Betty Cattermole prompted, "Will you be staying?"

The blonde girl popped a bit of bread into her mouth and chewed delicately. Hermione twirled her soup spoon in the stew before her and pursed her lips.

"I truly haven't got a choice," she admitted, "even though I know he'll be here, too. He won't want to go back to his orphanage."

"Who? Tom? Tom Riddle?" Maggie Prewett glanced behind Hermione to the Slytherin table and frowned. She flicked her eyes back to Hermione and said, "I can't imagine he'd create a problem for you, Hermione. You haven't even spoken to him in weeks and weeks. I'm certain he's got the message that you don't want to date him. Though the rest of us are still very confused about that."

They ate in thoughtful quiet for a few long minutes, and then Betty Cattermole said quietly,

"I find it rather presumptuous for Headmaster Dippet to proclaim Hogwarts as a 'safe haven.' After all, just in the past twelve months, we've lost two students to murder. First Myrtle, and now poor Ladon Scamander."

Hermione felt a clench of regret in her stomach. Tom had been right, all those weeks ago. Headmaster Dippet had indeed ordered a search party to find Ladon. Hermione had joined in because she thought it might look suspicious if she did not. Unsurprisingly, after five days of searching, they had been unable to find any trace of Ladon. Hermione knew that Professor Dumbledore must have questioned Tom Riddle on the matter, but as far as Hermione could tell nothing was done to pursue any suspicion against Tom. Headmaster Dippet had announced after ten long days that Ladon had likely been killed in some terrible accident - or possible something more sinister - but that his body was unlikely to ever be found. Hermione could only imagine the terrible headache that must have come from giving that news to the powerful Newt Scamander.

She felt rather ill again as she pondered the knowledge that a boy had died because of her. Yes, it was true that Ladon had been predatory with her, but she would never have wished for him to die because of it. Tom Riddle had hardly ingratiated himself to Hermione by killing a fellow student 'for her.' Quite the opposite, in fact - Hermione feared and loathed Tom more than ever after thinking over what had happened.

Now she had to come to grips with the notion that they would both be holed up in Hogwarts for the duration of summer holidays. She was certain that Tom would stay. Why would he go back to a Muggle orphanage when it was an option to stay here? Hermione stirred her stew as it grew cold and sighed deeply.

"Well, I appreciate the headmaster's offer," said Maggie Prewett, "but I shall be going home for the holidays. I miss my mum and dad, and I miss my bedroom there. It may or may not be safer at Hogwarts, but I won't be returning until August."

"Nor shall I." Betty Cattermole shook her head resolutely. "My family lives in the country. It's far safer there than in London or any other large city... and I suspect it's safer than it is here, as well."

Hermione nodded at them and brought a lukewarm spoonful of stew to her mouth. If she didn't have Maggie and Betty this summer, with whom was she supposed to socialise?

Without realising she'd done it, Hermione turned her head over her shoulder and looked to the Slytherin table. Tom was staring at her whilst his cronies conversed animatedly around him. He flicked up the corner of his lips to her, and he nodded once, slowly.

Hermione felt her cheeks colour and grow warm. It was bound to be a strange summer.

* * *

Tom Riddle was more than a little disappointed in his 'friends.' He'd instructed them all to send owls home and inform their parents that they would be staying at Hogwarts for the summer holidays. Although Tom relished the thought of peace and quiet and solitude, he thought it best to keep his followers nearby. The holidays would allow him nearly three months of free time in which to pull his herd in closer.

He was unpleasantly surprised when several owls arrived one morning to the Slytherin table in the Great Hall.

"My mum says I've got to come home," Orion Black frowned. He glanced up at Tom nervously. "She says if I'm not on the Hogwarts Express, she'll pull me out of school for good."

"My parents said essentially the same thing," sighed Avery, slamming his letter down upon the table. He crossed his arms over his chest and huffed a bit. Tom gritted his teeth in frustration and turned to the other boy who'd received an owl.

"Malfoy?" he prompted in a grimace. Abraxas Malfoy, the silver-haired, bulky boy a year younger than Tom, folded his letter and shook his head apologetically. Tom growled under his breath and said, "Fine. Go home, the lot of you. Enjoy your holidays."

"Tom, I hope you can see that we haven't a choice -" began Abraxas Malfoy, and Avery nodded his agreement. But the boys both stopped short when Tom shot them each a withering glare. He curled his lip up in disgust.

"There is always a choice to grow up," he informed them. "Shall you obey Mummy and Daddy your entire lives? Or do you intend to carve your own paths?"

His inquisition did little to help the situation. Three days later, the student body made its way down to Hogsmeade to board the Hogwarts Express. Tom watched the scene from the Viaduct, where he could peer down the glen. He chewed upon his bottom lip for a while, stopping only when he tasted blood. He reached for his wand from his suit jacket and pointed it at his lip.

"Episkey," he murmured, and the abrasions upon his lip promptly healed up. Tom fiddled with the Gaunt family ring upon his right ring finger, sparing a brief moment to remember how he'd obtained the trinket. In his mind, he could see his filthy Muggle relatives collapsing in death, and he felt his heart race a bit at the memory.

"Mr. Riddle! I thought I might find you here."

Tom whirled over his shoulder and saw Armando Dippet striding down the Viaduct. Tom moved away from the open window and bowed a bit in feigned reverence.

"Headmaster Dippet," he acknowledged. "I wanted to thank you again for keeping the school open during the holidays..."

"Indeed. I had a suspicion you might be pleased with that announcement." Dippet smiled a bit. Tom knew he'd always been one of Dippet's favourite students, and it showed in the warmth in the usually-distant wizard's expression. Dippet pulled a rolled bit of parchment from his robes and passed it over to Tom. "This is your appointment to Head Boy for the coming school year," Dippet informed him.

Tom cocked an eyebrow as he broke the wax seal upon the scroll and read it in full. He smirked a little and nodded in approval. Tom was utterly unsurprised to have been named Head Boy - who else would they appoint? - but he was pleased nonetheless.

"Thank you, Headmaster." He rolled the parchment back up and tucked it away. "Who is to be the Head Girl, if I might ask?"

"Ah, yes. That will be Miss Margaret Prewett," Dippet said, looking a bit hesistant. Tom frowned.

Maggie Prewett? The red-haired Gryffindor was a pureblood, but she was meek and seemed rather useless. She was bright enough, Tom supposed, but surely there had been a better choice available.

"I had thought, Headmaster - and please correct me if I'm wrong - that Miss Hermione Villeneuve had the highest girls' marks this year?"

"Oh, yes." Dippet nodded emphatically. Tom scowled as Dippet continued, "But you see, Tom... a great deal goes into selecting the Head Girl. Miss Villeneuve has only been a student at Hogwarts for a very short time. As Headmaster, I would face enormous backlash for naming a brand-new student as Head Girl when there are a great many talented, compassionate young ladies here. Miss Prewett has never once earned herself detention or any other disciplinary action. Her marks have been consistently high over the past six years. And she is considered a 'motherly' figure among younger girls. Professor Dumbledore and I thought her a good choice. I hope you'll concur."

Tom swept the scowl from his face and immediately replaced it with a false little smile of agreement. Internally, he was furious that Hermione wouldn't be appointed Head Girl. It would make accessing her that much easier. Still, Tom knew he had an entire summer to get what he wanted. And Tom Riddle always got what he wanted.

* * *

Lord Voldemort stared across the dining room table at the aged, elegant woman Hermione Granger had become. He drummed his fingers upon the wooden surface before him and chewed rather anxiously upon his bottom lip. Hermione looked too serene, as if she understood everything Voldemort did not. It was infuriating.

"I know you must feel rather confused at the moment," Hermione acknowledged. "I was not certain if this is what would happen, or whether the timelines would fuse and allow you to remember what's changed. It seems that you simply moved from one reality to another. You can ask me anything you wish to."

Voldemort frowned deeply, to hear Hermione giving him permission to do anything. Nonetheless, he needed knowledge that she seemed to have. "How is it that I've maintained this form?" Voldemort demanded, his voice sounding cold to his own ears. Hermione flinched at his tone, and he sat back curiously in his chair. She stared him straight in his eyes as she informed him,

"The things you did wrong the last time... the mistakes you made that lost you your body... I did not allow you to make them."

Voldemort hissed through his teeth at her, feeling enraged that she would have been the one to keep him from making mistakes. What did she mean? That he'd never cursed Harry Potter? That he'd never spent years in Albania, drifting about like a ghost?

"You kept me from making mistakes?" He demanded, and Hermione nodded patiently.

"I had rather a vested interest in your success this time around," she admitted, and her wrinkled old cheeks coloured a bit as she spoke. Then she reached into her robes and pulled something out, something dull and gold, and she held it out to him. He noticed that her hand didn't tremble at all as she opened her fingers and showed him the Gaunt family ring. "I'd almost forgotten," she said carefully, "that I was keeping for you. For this moment."

Voldemort reached out and snatched the ring from Hermione. She pulled her hand back slowly, as if she were completely unsurprised by his jolting movements. Voldemort examined the ring carefully, wondering how it was Hermione was unscathed by the jewelry. He distinctly remembered cursing it...

"It's not a Horcrux," Hermione said matter-of-factly, shaking her head. "Not this time. It's just a ring."

"But I remember -" Voldemort began, sounding enraged. Hermione interjected and shook her head calmly.

"Not this time, Tom," she said again. "This time you didn't need such things, and you're much stronger for it. Believe me."

* * *

Hermione strode from the library, her rucksack heavy with borrowed books. She saw him coming down the corridor, and she nearly whirled around to go back into the library. She groaned a bit at the sight of Tom Riddle. It had only been a few hours since the other students had left for the summer, and already he was tracking her down.

"Good afternoon, Miss Granger," he greeted her smoothly as he approached. Hermione felt hot anger flushing up her neck into her cheeks. She gritted her teeth and scowled at him.

"It's Villeneuve," she insisted, and Tom flashed her a maddeningly handsome grin.

"Is it? Even for the holidays?" He sighed lightly and reached for the strap of Hermione's rucksack. "Please, allow me to carry your heavy books back to Gryffindor Tower."

"No, thank you," Hermione growled, recoiling away from his hand. She reached for her wand and pointed it at her rucksack. She cast a nonverbal feather-light charm, and the bag felt much lighter on her shoulder. She looked pointedly up to Tom as if daring him to comment. He did, of course.

"Clever," he admitted. "But, then, you're always quite clever, aren't you?" He sighed again and shook his head. "You make it rather difficult for a young man to practise chivalry."

"I have no need for chivalry," Hermione lied, and she began to stride quickly away from Tom. He snatched at her arm and whirled her back around. Hermione yanked out of his grasp so hard that she nearly stumbled backwords. She furrowed her brows at him and said, "Let me go, Tom."

"I have tried being charming with you," Tom said in frustration. Hermione jutted her chin up, trying to give the illusion that she wasn't afraid of him. But her smug expression only seemed to irritate Tom further, and he said, "I gave you flowers - three times. I lent you my suit jacket; I danced with you and told you how pretty you looked in your dress. I even -"

"You did no such thing." Hermione shook her head and tried to stifle the amused look upon her face. Tom seethed with anger in response, and then his voice shook when he spoke.

"I beg your pardon?"

Hermione gave him a condescending little sigh and shifted upon her feet. "You never told me I looked pretty in my dress for the Slug Club party. You may have thought I did, but you never told me so."

Tom was silent for a moment, his breath coming quickly through his nostrils as he appeared to try and steady himself. He squared his jaw. "Well, you did. You did look pretty. I have tried being a knight in shining armour for you, Hermione. I gave you pretty little flowers and I killed a boy to save your virtue. When that didn't work, I tried being gruff and insistent. That didn't work, either. Tell me, Miss Granger, what does it take to get what I want? I always get what I want."

Hermione felt indignation boiling up in her throat. She pursed her lips at Tom and shook her head. "You know," she said haughtily, "It's quite hideous when you do that. When you brag and boast about always getting your way. You sound like a petulant child."

"Oh, I do, do I?" Tom leered down at her and shook his head, seemingly in disbelief at her gall. He muttered under his breath, "This is precisely why I ought to hate you." Then he cocked his head to the side and demanded, "Tell me, then, Miss Granger, how a man like myself is meant to speak."

Hermione shook her head resolutely and shut her eyes. "I am hardly about to begin giving practical advice to you, of all people. Your success is of no interest to me." She turned on her heel and made to walk away from him again, but then she heard Tom say in a cracked whisper,

"Please, Hermione."

She was so surprised to hear him speak that way that she stared at him in wonder for a long moment. Tom pinched his lips, shrugged, and shook his head. He looked angry and helpless at the same time.

"I have tried being charming, and I have tried being cruel. I can not - can not - accept this failure. Tell me, Hermione, what I need to do to make your knees go weak."

Hermione's mouth fell open, and she wrapped her arms about herself protectively. She frowned and mumbled, "Kindness. True and genuine kindness would make me want a man. But I sincerely doubt that you have the ability to summon actual kindness, Tom. So I suppose, at least around you, my knees won't be going weak any time soon."

Tom Riddle was silent for a long moment then, his hands balling into fists at his sides. Hermione watched as he bit down so hard on his bottom lip that she thought it might bleed. She winced at the sight of Tom struggling to stay in control.

"I am angry," he admitted in a whisper that could freeze an open flame. He stared at Hermione, narrowing his cold dark eyes. He nodded then and continued, "I am angry because I have spent weeks attempting to rid my mind of you. In my waking hours, I have succeeded, for the most part. But you haunt my dreams, Hermione. When I sleep, when I am least in control of myself, I smell the spring rain on your skin and I taste the sweetness upon your lips. And I wake frustrated and... angry."

Hermione quivered a bit where she stood, feeling more intimidated by Tom now than she ever had. She feared - truly feared - that he might kill her just to rid himself of her. She asked quietly, "What can I do to make you less angry, Tom?"

"Stop saying 'no' to me." He took a step toward Hermione, and she resisted the urge to back away from him. He reached to cup her jaw in his hand, and she tried not to flinch. An odd feeling of want coiled in her lower belly, making Hermione feel dirty and wanton. She shook her head and whispered,

"I don't - I can't... I know too much about you, Tom. I can't be with you in any capacity. I'm sorry."

"Stop saying 'no' to me," Tom commanded her again. Hermione met his gaze and sighed quite against her will, feeling her face meld into his cool hand. She tingled and shook with anxiety as Tom took another half step toward her. She stood her ground as he lowered his face toward hers. "Hermione... I have no idea why I sent you back in time. My best guess is simply that I wanted you here. And I always get what I want. You understand?"

Hermione wanted to shake her head, to rip her face out of his hand and slap his cheek and scream at him. She wanted to hate him, to destroy him so that he could never become the monster she knew he would.

But then something cracked inside her, in her mind and her heart and, very deeply, in her soul. She stared up into his dark eyes and felt her hatred dissolve. She suddenly realised that his rise to power was an inevitability, or at least it was the path that he seemed destined to follow. If she could not leave this timeline, then at the very least she could help steer it.

Hermione swallowed heavily and tried to shake her head against Tom's hand again, to step away and rid herself of him. But then he lowered his face further until his lips brushed up against hers. He ghosted a kiss against her mouth and pulled back a half inch. His murmuring breath was warm and delicious as he said,

"Please, Hermione... stop saying 'no' to me. Please."

She had never expected to hear him beg anyone for anything - least of all to beg her for intimacy. But Hermione found herself acutely unable to deny him any longer, and she nodded reluctantly against his palm.

His lips crushed hers, then, as if he'd set loose a dragon inside himself. Hermione was grateful when he pushed her backward against a stone wall. She had felt rather unable to stand as he kissed her - her head had whirled at once, and her ears had started ringing, and her knees had gone weak.

* * *

Lord Voldemort stood over the Hogwarts Pensieve, gliding his fingertip along its silver edge. He stared down into the murky grey cloud within it for a long moment. Then, turning to Hermione, he asked,

"Where is Albus Dumbledore?"

She met his eyes and pinched her thin, aged lips. She shook her head gravely and said, "Professor Dumbledore was rather... in the way, I'm afraid. I did not enjoy seeing you... well, it doesn't matter now. It was years ago." She cleared her throat delicately, and Voldemort watched in wonder as her eyes welled up a bit. She finally shook her head a bit faster and laughed nervously. "In any case, Tom... I've brought you to this Pensieve because I've been putting memories in it for years. I thought it likely that you would not remember much, if anything, due to the radical shifts in timelines that occurred. So I've been extracting memories I thought would help orient you."

Voldemort dragged his top teeth across his bottom lip and nodded into the clouds of the Pensieve. Then, realising that Hermione had known the password to the Headmaster's office, he turned to her again and frowned.

"The current headmaster has allowed you to use the Hogwarts Pensieve consistently?" He knew he looked rather skeptical, and Hermione smiled warmly at him, as if he were a child. That irked him, but he kept his face impassive.

"I'm the headmistress of Hogwarts, Tom," Hermione informed him matter-of-factly. "I have been for twenty-five years."

Voldemort felt a chill spike through his veins at the thought of that. She had already declared herself his ally tonight; did that mean that he'd had control of Hogwarts through her for over two decades?

"And where is Harry Potter?" he demanded lightly, drumming his warm fingers upon the cool rim of the Pensieve. Hermione's little smile disappeared then, and the wrinkle between her eyebrows deepened as she looked as though she might cry.

"Ah... yes. The Potter boy..." she began carefully. Voldemort startled to hear Hermione Granger - of all people - refer to 'The Potter boy' instead of 'my old friend Harry.' He narrowed his eyes at her and frowned, waiting for her to clarify what had happened. Hermione finally met his eyes and said softly, "I told you of the Prophecy years before Harry was born. You took it upon yourself to... eliminate... James Potter before he married Lily Evans. Before Harry was born. I should have hated you for it, and there was a difficult year between us after that happened. But then I realised that by keeping Harry from being born in the first place, you were inadvertently being merciful. After all, you killed James Potter in my original timeline, too. This way, by doing it earlier, you erased a life instead of directly taking one. Still..."

She paused, taking a little shaking breath. She moved to stand at the headmaster's desk - her desk - and she pulled out her wand. She stared down at her desk as she told Voldemort,

"I've worked for ages on a spell to pull my memories from the Pensieve and implant them in your head permanently. I thought perhaps I might simply have you use Legilimency tonight, but then you'd be viewing the memories. I have actually worked out a way for them to be ingrained in your mind as though they were your own." She raised her glistening eyes to him and smiled sadly. "As if you remembered the past fifty years, Tom."

Voldemort stepped away from the Pensieve and stalked slowly toward Hermione. He nodded and pronounced tightly, "I am grateful for your loyalty. Before I take the memories, I must ask one thing, Hermione. Have you come to... care for me... after all these years?"

He was not entirely certain why he asked her that, or why he phrased it the way he did. No one in Tom Riddle's life - or Voldemort's - had ever genuinely cared for him. He had been loathed, admired, feared, and followed. But 'cared for'? Never. And he did not want to learn the answer to his question through memories. He needed to know first.

Hermione swallowed heavily, and Voldemort watched with curiosity as a solitary tear leaked from her eye and wormed its way down her slightly wrinkled cheek. Hermione reached up to swipe away the tear, and she nodded resolutely.

"I have loved you, Tom," she informed him, "Since the summer before our final year at Hogwarts. I will show you. You will know it."

Voldemort squared his jaw and ground his teeth a bit as he struggled to keep his face empty. "But I never... I would not 'love' you. Or anybody else," he argued, more to himself than to her. Hermione's sad smile widened and another lone tear worked its way from her eye. She nodded in agreement and whispered,

"No, Tom. You never told me you loved me. And I never thought you did. But you gave me lilacs every birthday, and a rare book every Christmas. And you married me and made me yours, more so than any of your followers. And you gave me this... something I never would have thought I'd have wanted."

She pulled back the sleeve of her emerald robes, revealing a twisted black mark upon her forearm. The Dark Mark. Voldemort felt his mouth fall open, quite against his will. Hermione Granger had taken the Dark Mark? He recoiled instinctively, fearing that the reality she was going to put into his head would be too radically different from what he remembered. He watched as Hermione raised her wand toward the Pensieve. She spared one last glance toward his face and her eyes shone as she said,

"I'm very glad you'll be with me again, Tom." Then she flashed her eyes toward the Pensieve and murmured, "Detrahendum memoria."

* * *

The first dinner in Hogwarts over summer holidays felt extremely odd to Hermione. She was unaccustomed to sitting at a long, empty table in a mostly vacant Great Hall. It was even more strange when a single platter of food appeared upon the Gryffindor table, sent up by the house-elves. Hermione frowned and tried to ignore how eerily quiet the Great Hall was as she spooned herself a portion of food.

She flicked her eyes up to the Head Table. The only professors who had stayed for the summer were Headmaster Dippet, Professor Dumbledore, and Professor Merrythought. The Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher had been requested to stay in case of emergencies with the few female students who had stayed. In truth, Hermione was rather shocked at how few students chose to take advantage of the school being open for the summer. Particularly, she thought, since the D-Day invasion of France was to occur in just a week. It was shocking, really, how oblivious so many in the wizarding world seemed to be in the face of the largest Muggle conflict in history.

Then there was Grindelwald. The Dark wizard had spent the past few months gathering strength on the Continent, seizing upon the chaos created by the Muggle war in order to mask murders and sow fear. Hermione would have thought far more parents would have kept their children at Hogwarts out of caution. However, as she glanced around the Great Hall, she counted only twelve students who had stayed. There were four students at the Ravenclaw table - three boys and a girl, all of whom appeared to be second- or third-years. Five Hufflepuffs had stayed; there were two girls and three boys. None of them seemed older than fourth-years. Hermione was the only Gryffindor to keep the holidays at Hogwarts.

Then there were the Slytherins. There was Tom, of course. Surprisingly, Druella Rosier had also stayed behind. The girl was a rising seventh-year student, but she looked years older in Hermione's mind. She had black curls and heavy-lidded eyes, and she looked perpetually irritated. Hermione was acutely reminded, upon looking at the girl, of the daughter Hermione knew Druella would have - Bellatrix Lestrange.

Tom Riddle came striding into the Great Hall as Hermione flicked her head away from Druella Rosier's form. She met his eyes as he entered the room, his steps smooth and purposeful. She felt a bubbling and unsolicited flutter in her stomach when she saw him, and she thought back to how he'd kissed her this afternoon.

She'd surrendered, finally, to the notion that she could not stop the ascent of Lord Voldemort. To do so, she realised, would be just as harmful to myriad lives as if she were to 'ally' herself with Tom. Indeed, she had pondered, there had been a great many lives lost in fruitless struggles against Lord Voldemort. Perhaps, Hermione's brain had suggested quietly, it would actually be better to gently guide Tom's timeline and ease his rise to power. It would be less traumatic for the wizarding world, she thought, if a great deal of conflict was stopped before it began.

After a melancholy, silent meal, Hermione rose from the Gryffindor table.

"Miss Villeneuve? May I speak with you for a moment in private?"

Hermione whirled over her shoulder to see that Professor Dumbledore had come down from the staff table and was now only a few feet away. Hermione nodded nervously and followed Dumbledore from the Great Hall, feeling Tom's gaze searing skeptically upon her.

Dumbledore paused in the Entrance Hall, a few metres from the House points hourglasses. Hermione glanced toward them and realised this was where she'd spoken with Ladon Scamander weeks earlier, when the boy had declared he'd been Imperiused the night he'd come on to Hermione. She gulped, thinking of how Ladon's body had been Vanished into non-being by Tom, and was only broken from her reverie when Dumbledore said,

"Miss... Granger, is there something you wish to tell me about Tom Riddle?"

Hermione looked at the old wizard in alarm at the sound of her true name. She blinked a few times and then poised herself, shaking her head resolutely.

"No, sir... Did you have anything specific in mind?"

Dumbledore's pale eyes flashed a bit, and then he murmured, "You know what, if anything, is to become of that boy. Do not misunderstand me; I fully comprehend the dangers and risks of tampering with time. That being said... is there anything you wish to tell me that might save a great many lives, Miss Granger?"

She swallowed heavily again, knowing that Dumbledore was an accomplished Legilimens who could simply pry into her mind if he so chose. He was sly and calculating, too, Hermione knew. He would not ask her about Tom Riddle if he didn't have immense suspicions against the boy.

Well, he was right, Hermione admitted to herself. She thought she ought to 'give' Dumbledore something in order to keep him out of her mind. If he saw the truth she'd lived, she thought, nothing good would come of it.

"There is something I would like to tell you, sir," Hermione said, and she watched as Dumbledore breathed slowly in through his nose with feigned calm. She cleared her throat carefully and said, "You do have the ability to defeat Grindelwald, sir. The two of you... well, it was known as the Greatest Duel in History, sir. And you won. Will win. You are more powerful than Grindelwald, sir. That shall save a great many lives, I think."

Dumbledore's eyes flashed again, and he nodded thoughtfully. "Thank you, Miss Villeneuve," he pronounced, reverting to Hermione's assumed name. "I shall not ask you any more questions about your time. I believe it to be terribly dangerous to do so. But please know that you are welcome at any time to discuss things with me which you believe I ought to know."

Hermione pinched her lips and nodded. "Thank you, sir. I'm off to the Gryffindor common room if there's nothing else you need, sir."

"Indeed. Enjoy your first night in Hogwarts unshackled by academics, my dear," he teased her knowingly, and Hermione resisted the urge to roll her eyes a bit at him. She nodded and curled her lips up a little.

Hours later, Hermione was curled up in front of the fireplace in the Gryffindor common room, having spent a great deal of time reading Banishing The Shadows: A Very Brief History of Magical Illumination. The enormous (and ill-titled) tome sat upon her lap as she read. For a few hours, Hermione was engrossed in the text, but then her eyelids started to feel quite heavy. Before she knew what had happened, she was fast asleep, dreaming of her parents and Harry and Ron... People she would never see again, except in her mind.

"Hermione."

She jolted awake at the sound of her name, sitting up quickly upon the divan and sending the heavy book flying from her lap.

"Wh-what? Who?"

Disoriented by sleep, Hermione looked up to see Tom Riddle standing beside the divan. He had on dark flannel pyjamas, and had wrapped his body in a deep emerald-coloured dressing gown. Hermione narrowed her eyes at him.

"Am I still dreaming?" she asked blankly. Tom curled his mouth into his crooked grin and folded his arms around his chest. He chuckled a bit.

"No, Hermione. You're not dreaming. As it turns out, it is remarkably simple to cajole a Hogwarts portrait into granting entry to 'forbidden' places."

Hermione sat straighter upon the divan, sighing a little as she realised that nowhere was truly 'forbidden' to Tom Riddle. She shook her head and huffed,

"Well, why have you come? What time is it, anyway? Oughtn't you be sleeping down in the dungeons?"

She said the last bit rather acerbically, but Tom merely chuckled again. He said, "I found myself unable to sleep until I asked you what it is Dumbledore wanted earlier."

Hermione felt her lips part as she tried to think of what to say to Tom. She could lie and tell him it had nothing to do with him, but she knew he was very good at detecting a lie. So she swallowed a bit and admitted,

"Professor Dumbledore wanted to know if there was any information about you - about your future - that I wanted to tell him."

Tom looked terribly annoyed as he sneered, "The old man has suspected me of being 'evil' for quite some time. He is becoming rather a nuisance, I should think. I find he is... getting in my way."

Hermione was horrified to hear the light tone in Tom's voice, fearing that this would be ammunition for him to kill Albus Dumbledore. She could only imagine the awful effects that would have on future timelines. Besides that, she still did not wish to think of Tom as a murderer, and to hear him speak as he was doing made an uncomfortable coil of fear gather in her abdomen.

"Well," she said primly, "I've told you what you wanted to know. Now, are you going to go back to the Slytherin dormitories like a good Head Boy, or shall I send for Professor Merrythought?"

"Neither of those options sound terribly appealing to me," Tom said in a bored voice. "I should like to stay the night here, I think."

"Here? In the Common Room?" Hermione's voice squeaked and her breath quivered as she looked him up and down and forced herself to be petulant with him. He smirked again and shook his head.

"No. Not in the Common Room. Where do you sleep, Hermione?"

She sighed and reached down to pick up her heavy book from the floor. She shut it and rose from the divan, tipping her chin up at Tom. "You can't come to my room, Tom."

"Why not?" He sounded as though he didn't much care, and he flicked his eyebrows up only a little bit. But Hermione knew he was daring her to challenge him further. She shifted a bit upon her feet and mumbled,

"You know as well as I do that bad things are bound to happen if you go upstairs with me."

"'Bad' things?" he repeated, frowning and shaking his head with artificial innocence. "I promise you, Hermione, I am no cur. At least not about those things. I merely wish to kiss you again. I rather enjoyed it this afternoon, if I'm honest."

Hermione huffed out a little breath in anger and pursed her lips. "You can kiss me here, if you wish," she insisted through clenched teeth. "Besides... don't you know that Godric Gryffindor enchanted the stairs to the girls' dormitories? It's a really complicated Glisseo; if a boy tries to go up there, it turns into a stone slide. You can't go to my room, Tom; it's -"

He silenced her ranting by cupping her jaw in his hand, snaking his fingers through her hair, and leaning down to press his lips against hers. Hermione moaned a bit at the feel of his mouth, and she nearly dropped the book she held as her instincts told her to touch him, to kiss him, to let him do whatever he wanted.

"Fine," Tom said as he pulled away from their kiss. "I shall respect your cursed stairwell and stay here. And I'll do everything down here that I had planned for up there. Godric Gryffindor neglected to consider the merits of an utterly empty Common Room at midnight."

Hermione gasped a bit at his brazen words, but once again her protests were silenced by the taste of him... and by the intoxicating aroma of rosewood, soap, cinnamon, and iron.

A week after Hermione had implanted her memories into Voldemort's mind, he sat again in the dining room of Malfoy Manor. Apparently, he'd commandeered the manse from the Malfoy family twenty years earlier, as punishment for a transgression by Lucius Malfoy. It had since been known as 'The Regia,' according to his new memories.

There were moments when Voldemort still could not believe what Hermione had taken from the Pensieve. When Hermione had given him back the memories of these past fifty years, he had not lost his recollection of his 'first timeline.' That is, he recalled what it meant to slither about the Albanian forest for years. He knew the utter agony of his rebounded Killing Curse against the Potter child. He could still feel what it meant to be trapped in his grey, inhuman form. All of that was vividly entombed in his brain.

But none of that had happened now.

He 'remembered,' thanks to Hermione's spell, all that had come to pass, and he was amazed. He had managed to make the entire wizarding world fall in line, into obedience to him, by the year 1965. Ever since then, he'd been the indisputed leader of wizarding Britain, and had apparently developed aspirations of spreading his empire.

And how had he arrived to that point? She had assisted him, every blasted step of the way. She would make suggestions upon his actions, and Voldemort would obey them, knowing that she was well-informed. She had trusted him in a way he would have never expected. More alarmingly, he seemed to put a great deal more trust in Hermione than he'd put in any other person in his life.

And all, he thought, because he let her fall in love with him that final summer at Hogwarts.


	4. Chapter 4

"Take off your clothes, Hermione."

She glared at him and crossed her arms over her chest. Tom had pulled away from their kiss and immediately ordered her to disrobe. He'd regretted his command almost as soon as it had escaped his lips; she was strong-willed and did not respond well to being ordered about.

"That may very well be the least romantic thing I've ever heard in my life," Hermione said hotly. Tom could not help but smirk down at her as he huffed a little laugh and admitted,

"I was not aiming for romance, I'm afraid. I was aiming for you to remove your knickers."

Hermione looked utterly scandalised, and her right hand quivered at her side as if she were contemplating slapping Tom. He quickly realised he needed to tread more carefully if he was to get his way tonight.

"Ever heard that adage about honey and vinegar, Tom?" Hermione hissed. Tom gave her a conciliatory nod and lowered his eyes with feigned humility. He cleared his throat gently and said,

"Please, Miss Granger, would you be so good as to take off your clothes so that I might be witness to the exquisite beauty of your form?"

He raised his eyes to her and smiled a bit, watching her cheeks colour into a deep scarlet. She looked irritated, and she shook her head in disbelief. But then she said, very softly,

"I wish I could pin down why it is that I'm attracted to you, Tom Riddle. Then it might be a bit easier to pretend I wasn't."

"Stop fighting it," Tom said firmly, reaching out to unclasp her black outer robe. He pushed the robe off her shoulders and it fell to the ground with a soft ripple. He peeled off her jumper next, and she let him do it, though a look of reticence still marked her face. Tom began unbuttoning her shirt, trying to control his breath as her skin was revealed to him. He murmured, "The sooner we both stop pretending, the better."

Hermione's skin was smooth, he found. He had expected soft skin, for she was a young woman, but he'd never imagined that she would feel like actual silk beneath his fingers. Tom spent endless minutes brushing his hands over ever inch of her that he could touch, until finally he reached behind her back to unfasten her brassiere. Hermione gasped a little as the white cotton garment fell forward, and Tom moved cautiously as he slid it down her arms. He was acutely aware that aggressive movement right now might cause her to recoil from him. Once she was bare to him, he cupped her left breast in his palm and savoured the weight of it, brushing the pad of his thumb over her hardened nipple. His cock strained in his trousers, and he felt his throat bob with a desperate gulp.

Her skirt and knickers somehow fell to the floor; Tom reckoned that Hermione must have slid them off whilst he fondled her chest. He looked her up and down and huffed a bit in approval. She was thin, almost gangly, but there was a hint of a womanly curve at her hips. Her breasts, while not particularly large, were pleasantly round and fit her form nicely. Everything about her was orderly and proportionate, Tom thought. She looked _right_ to him.

He only realised how long he'd been staring at her when she coughed a bit and mumbled, "Your turn, then."

Tom furrowed his eyebrows and dragged his teeth over his lip. He didn't need to ask her to clarify. She wanted him to strip, too. But whilst Tom was entirely confident in his school uniform, he was less haughty about his naked form. He knew his own chest was less toned than other boys in his year, that he was a bit more stringy in build. He knew that Rosier and Avery had significantly more hair upon their chests than he did, that Abraxas Malfoy was more muscular. For those reasons, and to preserve the air of mystery and distance he'd curated, Tom made a habit of showering and changing clothes in private. He was not especially eager to reveal his naked self to Hermione now; the last thing he needed was for her to laugh at him.

He cleared his throat and said delicately, "I had intended simply to dote upon _your_ body, Hermione."

She chuckled darkly and shook her head, and Tom watched with alarm as her warm eyes glinted at him in the dim light. "That isn't fair at all," she insisted. Tom tried to keep his eyes upon her face, but found his gaze drifted of its own accord around her naked body. Hermione said firmly, "You see every inch of me now. I believe it is only fair that you reciprocate."

She shocked him then by stepping close to him and putting her fingers upon the buttons at his waist. He nearly batted her hand away as she unfastened his pyjama trousers, but her knuckles brushed over his erection. Instead of fighting her off, Tom found himself letting out a low groan of want, shutting his eyes against the whirling sensation that had suddenly come over his head.

His hands balled into fists at his side as he felt her pull his cock from his pyjamas, as he felt her hands tentatively gliding over his length. He pinched his eyes more tightly shut at the feel of it, his breath seething through clenched teeth as he struggled to stay quiet. Then, suddenly, there was something warm and wet around his member, and his eyes sprang open in alarm.

He looked down to see Hermione kneeling upon the antique rug. She'd taken his manhood in her mouth, and her hands reached for the waistband of Tom's trousers. She yanked them down over his hips until they fell freely to the floor. Tom unwittingly bucked his hips forward at the sensation of her mouth. Hermione gagged at the sudden intrusion, and she raised watering eyes up to him as if to scold him. Tom did not apologise; he was too busy attempting to stay conscious.

Her hands settled upon his hips, and Tom whipped off his emerald-coloured dressing gown and dark pyjama shirt. He stood nude before her, suddenly unashamed and unconcerned with his appearance. All he could care about was the delicious sensation of her hot, wet mouth as she plunged him into her throat over and again. Tom's hands tangled into her frizzy hair, his fingertips digging into her scalp as he encouraged her to continue her ministrations.

He snarled like a beast when she pulled him deeply into her throat. He felt her gag around him, heard her sputter and cough a little as he pulled back out, but he did not care. He wanted it again, and he pushed himself hard between her lips. Then she did the same thing that she'd done on the Viaduct to drive him utterly mad.

She _moaned_. This time, it _was_ like a proper harlot would do. Her voice was low, coming from somewhere in the depths of her chest. Her moan vibrated upon his shaft and made him twitch and grow. Tom suddenly realised he was moments away from finishing in her mouth. Much as he would enjoy doing so, it wasn't the plan he'd had for tonight. He wrenched Hermione's head off of his cock and held her back by her hair. She stared up at him with heat in her chestnut eyes, her lips pearlescent and swollen.

Tom wanted her more in that moment than he'd wanted anything in his entire life. Every imperfection on her body - the dusting of freckles across her nose, the way her hair stood on end, the awkwardly bony structure of her limbs - all of it was delightfully attractive to him. He couldn't explain exactly why, though he knew there was something very visceral and elemental drawing him to the girl. He huffed in frustration and muttered down to Hermione,

"Stop, before you end things prematurely, Hermione. I am not finished with you yet."

A deep flush crept up her neck into her cheeks. Her lips parted a bit and her eyes glinted again, and Tom said in a shaking voice,

"Get on your hands and knees."

Hermione tipped her chin up and wrenched her head to the side a bit until Tom released her hair. She said matter-of-factly, "Vinegar and honey, Tom. Remember?"

Tom curled up a corner of his mouth and gritted his teeth. He was at once impressed and annoyed by her attitude. She was the only one he'd ever encountered who had not bent easily to his will. In anyone else, such defiance would have been utterly infuriating. To a point, it was with Hermione, as well. But it was also oddly arousing, causing Tom to feel a primal urge to _claim her_ in every manner imaginable. He tossed up an eyebrow and sneered mockingly down at Hermione,

"Please, Miss Granger, would you be so kind as to arrange yourself upon the carpet so that I might take you from behind?"

Hermione's eyes widened and she squared her jaw, cocking her head to the side a bit. For a brief and horrifying moment, Tom thought she might reject him outright. But he could almost read her thoughts without Legilimency, and it was plain to see that she was tired of fighting off his advances. She sucked on her bottom lip for a moment, and then she said,

"My knees hurt. I've been kneeling for quite a while, you know."

Tom laughed, feeling his mirth bubble up from his chest. He moved to sit upon the divan, not caring at all that he was naked upon the Gryffindor Common Room furniture. He patted his thigh and said slyly to Hermione,

"Perhaps my lap will be more comfortable for you than the floor."

Hermione scrambled rather ungracefully to her feet, and Tom saw that her knees had round red patches from the rug. He was strangely aroused by that sight, too, by the evidence that she'd been kneeling and had taken him in her mouth. His member stiffened further as he flicked his eyes up her form and met her hungry expression.

"Come here," he whispered, his voice crackling in the silent room. He'd meant to sound as authoritative as ever, but he'd sounded more pleading than he would have liked. His dominant resolve crumbled further when Hermione put a knee on each side of his thighs and arranged herself to hover above his cock. She snaked her arms about his shoulders, and Tom reached between her thighs.

He could not stifle the groan that escaped when his fingers felt how wet - how _ready_ \- she was. She wanted him, badly. That was obvious from the radiating, slick heat between her legs. She squirmed a little until the tip of Tom's cock pushed at her entrance, and Tom struggled not to buck his hips up and impale her.

She'd shut her eyes, and her breath was coming in quaking pants through her nose as she trembled above him. Her hands clutched at the back of his head, and Tom felt a tingling come over his scalp. It crept down his spine and curled around to his front, igniting his groin with desire.

He moved his hands to Hermione's waist and pulled her down slowly, feeling every inch of her womanhood as she slid onto him. He moaned helplessly until he was buried inside of her. The pulsating tightness around him was almost too much to bear. His hands tightened around her waist when she began to roll her hips up and down, gliding up his shaft and back down again.

They developed a steady rhythm, slow but insistent, with Tom's hands upon Hermione's waist and hers grasping his shoulders.

"Miss Granger, would you be so good as to kiss me?" Tom asked through gritted teeth. Hermione grinned down at him, at the way he'd deliberately phrased his request to avoid sounding commanding. Tom smirked back at her and prompted again, "I would be honoured, Miss Granger, for a kiss just now."

She tasted powerfully sweet, Tom thought when her mouth pressed against his. He hummed against her mouth and urged her lips to part, exploring her with his tongue and savouring her flavour. She was intoxicating, and he should have been irritated about that. He should have been utterly infuriated that she made _him_ moan like an infatuated fool.

But instead, all he could think was that she felt completely marvelous around him, that he never wanted her to climb off his lap, that he wanted to kiss her forever. But she yanked her mouth off of his suddenly, stilling her hips, and she panted,

"Tom! The contraceptive spell... we both forgot!" She looked a bit panicked, and Tom sighed in frustration. He had no desire for her to scramble off of his cock just so that they could cast the incantation. Neither had he any desire for a bastard born before he even had the chance to achieve power.

Tom stuck his hand out in the direction of his discarded clothing. He summoned every bit of magic he possessed and barked firmly, " _Accio_ wand!"

To his complete satisfaction, Tom's yew wand came flying out of the heap of clothes and landed squarely in his hand. He gave a smug look to the disbelieving Hermione, and he twirled his wand for a moment before pointing its tip at Hermione's abdomen. He murmured a few spells until he was confident she was protected from his seed, and then he lay his wand down upon the divan and said smoothly,

"Where were we, Miss Granger?"

* * *

Hermione had sent Tom Riddle back to the dungeons after they'd hastily dressed again. They were both rather slick with sweat, both still a bit woozy from pleasure, as Hermione had murmured to Tom,

"I... shall see you at breakfast, then."

Tom had been tying the belt of his dressing-gown as he licked his bottom lip and smiled, "I daresay this is the first time you and I have parted company in such good spirits."

"Don't ruin it, then," Hermione insisted, rolling her eyes at him. She knew her hair was an utter disaster, that her clothes were rumpled, that she smelled of sex, but she did not care. Neither did Tom, apparently. He reached for Hermione's waist and yanked her against his body, leaning down to breathe in the scent of her before kissing her forehead delicately.

"It's very obvious to me now why I sent you back here. Back in time."

"So that we could snog on the Viaduct and do worse in the library and in the Common Room?" Hermione cocked up an eyebrow at him and pursed her lips. Tom snorted a bit and nodded.

"Yes, so that we could do those things. But also simply because I rather like having you about. It isn't something I wish to attempt to explain, either to you or to myself. It doesn't really matter _why_ , does it? All that matters is that I like to touch you, to kiss you, to spar with you and watch you sleep on a divan with a library book."

Hermione gasped, scandalised, and huffed, "You watched me sleep? For how long?"

"Long enough," Tom said slyly. "You murmur things in your sleep, you know. And your mind is _shockingly_ easy to enter whilst you're sleeping."

Hermione felt a quiver of unease course through her veins. She pulled away from Tom a bit and asked, "You looked in my head without my permission? At my dreams?"

"Of course I did," Tom shrugged, rather shamelessly. Hermione knew she ought to be furious with Tom for doing that, but instead she merely felt curious. She sighed and said self-consciously,

"Well... what did you see?" Hermione knew vaguely what she'd been dreaming when Tom had roused her, though the details were fuzzy.

Tom surprised Hermione by snaring his fingers in her hair and kissing her forehead again. "You were sitting upon the lap of a man who looked quite a bit like you. Your father, I suppose. You were very small, and you were clutching a book, as you always seem to be doing. The man - your father - was reading aloud to you and you were following with your fingertip. You were happy. The book was about butterflies."

Hermione expected Tom to sneer at her about her dream, to call her father a 'filthy Muggle' or to decry the maudlin subject of her dream-book. But the gaze he gave her was steely and serious, and that made Hermione's eyes burn ever more intensely. She felt her bottom lip shake and she shook her head as she whispered,

"I shall never see them again. My parents."

Tom licked his bottom lip again and said delicately, "Perhaps... perhaps someday, years from now, you can go to where you know they will live. You can sit in a bookshop near their house, and you can Transfigure yourself so that you do not look familiar in any way. Then, perhaps someday, years from now, your father will walk into that bookshop holding the tiny hand of a little girl. And you will see him again."

Hermione felt hot tears erupt from her eyes then, quite uncontrolled as they slithered down her cheeks. She swiped at them and sighed with shaking breath. "I want to go home," she said suddenly, before she could contemplate the words.

"I am your home now." Tom's voice was warmer than Hermione was accustomed to hearing it, though he was still insistent and firm. Hermione knew that, buried beneath the veneer of concern, there remained the bit of Tom who 'always got what he wanted.' And she knew he did not wish for her to leave his time.

A while later, Hermione shook with tears as she stood alone in the girls' showers. She'd scrubbed the sticky evidence of her dalliance with Tom from between her legs, and she'd washed the salty sweat from her body. When at last she felt clean, she shut off the water and wrapped a towel about her form. She pulled on a warm nightgown before sliding into her bed, but she still felt utterly naked. She'd allowed Tom Riddle - _Voldemort_ \- to take her body, more than once now. Worst of all, she'd liked it. She'd truly liked it. He'd made her clench around him, made her moan with want and gratification, made him relish the feel of his skin beneath her fingers and his lips against hers.

She'd felt safe with him, though of course she knew that was idiotic. She'd felt a clench of regret in her chest as he'd climbed out of the portrait hole, for she'd wanted nothing more than for him to stay the night with her.

As Hermione drifted off to sleep, she thought back to the uncharacteristic warmth he'd used with her as he'd revealed what she'd been dreaming. The way he'd made it seem as though there were hope if she stayed in this time. The way he'd kissed her forehead - in a fashion that had felt comforting and affectionate.

It was almost alarming, the way his cruel and cold exterior had vanished in the Common Room. But as he'd slipped out the portrait hole, Hermione could sense Tom putting up his guard again. He needed it, she knew. He needed to be flinty and brusque and unfriendly, or else no one would fear and obey him.

She huffed in her bed and tossed about as she wondered why she cared whether anyone obeyed Tom.

There was something unnatural, she thought angrily, about how much it pleased her to be with him. There was something dreadful and _wrong_ about how much she liked his kisses, how much he impressed her with his skill and wit and raw sense of authority. She shouldn't like it, any of it. She shouldn't like _him,_ Hermione thought bitterly, but she did. She liked him very much.

* * *

"Mr. Riddle. Please do come in."

Headmaster Dippet beckoned for Tom to enter his office. Tom glanced behind the Headmaster's desk to the rows of curious-looking portraits. Tom cleared his throat and approached the desk, saying delicately,

"Headmaster Dippet, I was wondering if you had already notified Miss Prewett of her appointment to Head Girl?"

Dippet frowned and shook his head, looking a bit perplexed. "I had not yet sent the owl to her parents' residence," Dippet admitted hesitantly. "Why do you ask, Tom?"

Tom pulled out a folded newspaper from his school robes and smoothed it wordlessly upon Dippet's desk. "I wonder, Headmaster," he began, "If you are familiar with the Muggle newspaper _The Daily Telegraph_? I received this copy just this morning from a fellow student - Orion Black. He saw it outside his home and procured a copy for me. I expect this news will be covered even in _The Daily Prophet._ In any case, Sir, I think it to be quite a significant development."

Tom watched as Dippet scanned the headlines. ' _ **ALLIED INVASION! TROOPS SEVERAL MILES INTO FRANCE!**_ _\- Fighting in Caen; 10,000 tons of bombs blasted way - Pilots watch battle, say, "Beaches Ours" - Massed fighters hunt in vain for Luftwaffe.'_

"This means, of course, Sir, that the fighting in the Muggle conflict on the Continent is about to become quite intense. I expect that Grindelwald will seize this opportunity to further establish control of the Continental wizarding world. There may, of course, also be a great many wizarding casualties of the Muggle war. Casualties like Miss Hermione Villeneuve's parents."

Armando Dippet set the newspaper down upon his desk and looked up at Tom. "What are you suggesting, my boy?"

"Well, Sir," Tom said thoughtfully, "I thought perhaps it would actually be a somewhat strategic move to name Miss Villeneuve as Head Girl. I should think Hogwarts may well be host to more Continental wizarding refugees in the coming year, no? It would be honourable, to say the least, to demonstrate a welcoming attitude toward these refugees by naming one - the first one - as Head Girl. Miss Villeneuve has achieved exceptional marks in her courses, has proven herself to be an especially competent witch, and is popular with her classmates. I believe she would make a fine Head Girl... and is a more politically wise choice than Miss Prewett, if you will permit me to say so."

Headmaster Dippet raised an eyebrow and pursed his lips. "And your... _recommendation_... has precisely nothing to do with the proximity of the dormitories of Head Girl and Head Boy?"

Tom feigned offence and shook his head. "No, Sir," he said innocently. "Of course not."

"Of course not," Dippet repeated, his voice laced with skepticism. He picked up the Muggle newspaper again and sighed as he read about the invasion of France. At last he said, "I shall think on it, Tom. Thank you for your advice. May I keep the newspaper?"

"Of course, Sir." Tom inclined his head. "Thank you for seeing me, Sir."

He walked briskly from the Headmaster's office, wondering if he ought to have simply cast a nonverbal Confundus Charm upon Dippet to urge him to select Hermione as Head Girl. But then, Tom thought, Confundus victims usually vibrated a bit when the spell hit them, and he worried that the portraits in the room would recognise what had happened and reveal his actions. So Tom had relied wholly upon his charm and skills of persuasion. He only hoped it would be enough. He had no particular desire to spend his seventh year next-door to Margaret Prewett.

* * *

Lord Voldemort rather enjoyed Malfoy Manor's new look. According to both his newly implanted memories and the testimonies of those around him, Voldemort had long ago turned 'The Regia' into a beautiful and functional headquarters. As he moved down the corridor, he admired his own taste in artwork and decoration, and he gave a pleased sound as he opened the door to his main office. The room featured tall windows that revealed the rain outside in all its splendour. The glowing marble fireplace made the office pleasantly warm, and Voldemort was rather fond of the heavy, dark furniture inside. He glided smoothly into the chair behind his desk, taking note of the ease with which he moved about. His old, disfigured form had been creaky and unwieldy. Even at seventy years of age, Voldemort found it far easier to maneouver his aged, mortal form than the abomination of a body he remembered.

There was a soft knock upon the office door, and Voldemort glanced up and barked, "Enter."

The door creaked open to reveal Hermione, looking elegant and resplendent in a set of green crushed velvet robes. Voldemort raised his eyebrows at her and curled up his lips crookedly.

"Skipping school today, are we, Headmistress?" he teased. His memories had informed him that the past fifty years with Hermione had been spent in an almost constant state of good-natured bantering. She rolled her eyes at him and shook her head, stepping into his office and shutting the door softly behind her. She held out a wooden box to him, and Voldemort frowned curiously at it. It appeared to be polished mahogany, or perhaps rosewood. He took the box wordlessly from Hermione, searching for its opening.

"You sealed it up months ago," she informed him matter-of-factly, "So that, in the case that you lost your memories in the timeline transfer, you would possess your own account of what had happened. I believe it is opened with Parseltongue."

Voldemort eyed her curiously, still marveling at the congenial manner in which she addressed him. He pinched his lips a bit and looked down at the box again. It appeared to have no means of opening the lid, so he cleared his throat and hissed smoothly,

" _Hesha-Hassah._ "

The box suddenly emitted a soft crack, and a crease appeared a few centimetres from the top. The box eased open, and Voldemort saw that inside were dozens of papers. He set the box down upon his desk and pulled out the stack of parchment.

There were many news clippings, most of which told stories that Voldemort remembered thanks to Hermione's implanted memories. It was still immensely gratifying to see the words upon the pages.

From 1962, there was a clipping which read, _'MINISTER FOR MAGIC IGNATIUS TUFT OUSTED.'_

Voldemort scanned the article, which outlined how 'The Dark Lord himself approved the removal of the incompetent Tuft,' and how Voldemort had 'authorised the replacement of Ignatius Tuft with a representative of the Cause. Minister Pollux Black was sworn into duty on Tuesday.'

Voldemort sighed lightly and continued flipping through news clippings, all of which outlined various feats, achievements, and milestones from the past fifty years. He paused briefly at the headline which read,

'ALBUS DUMBLEDORE FOUND DEAD IN WALES - APPARENT VICTIM OF SPATTERGROIT.'

Voldemort read the fabricated story, knowing full well it was all lies. He vividly remembered how he'd ambushed Dumbledore in Hogwarts, Disarming the old man and then sending a Killing Curse toward him. It had, indeed, been in August of 1958. But Voldemort remembered clearly the circumstances of that day, and there had been no spattergroit involved.

He flicked the clipping aside and read through a few more. Most were mundane instances, such as when the centaurs had signed a treaty with Voldemort's puppet government. Others were more significant, like the day that Lucius Malfoy and Andromeda Black were thrown into Azkaban for treason. Voldemort was about to put the stack of clippings back into the wooden box when he came upon a thin, blank envelope. He turned it over but saw no writing upon it. He held it up to Hermione, who stood on the other side of the desk. He cocked an eyebrow at her.

"What is this?" he demanded, and Hermione shrugged and shook her head.

"I've no idea," she admitted. "You put this together for yourself; I had nothing to do with it. I'm sorry. Open it?" she suggested, and Voldemort pinched his lips as he cracked open the wax seal. He pulled out the small bit of parchment and tossed the envelope aside.

He quickly recognised his own script upon the parchment, and he felt a strange sense of anxiety as he read the words he'd written to himself.

' _You have loved Hermione Granger for the past fifty years. Perhaps one day you ought to tell her so.'_

Voldemort startled a bit as he read the message five or six times. Then he cleared his throat and crumpled the parchment in his fist. He nonverbally Vanished it into nonbeing and flicked his eyes hesitantly to Hermione. She furrowed her grey brows curiously and asked,

"What did it say?"

Voldemort sighed lightly and replaced the papers into the box, shutting the lid firmly.

"Nothing important," he said.

* * *

Hermione pointed her wand at the neat stack of books upon the library table.

" _Redire librum,_ " she murmured, and the books flew quickly back toward the shelves and slid into their proper places. Hermione smirked at her well-performed charm and pulled the strap of her rucksack over her shoulder.

"I thought I might find you here. The weather is far too agreeable to be cooped up in the library, don't you think?"

She startled and turned toward Tom's voice. He was stalking through the library doors, and Hermione flicked her eyes down to his right hand, where he clutched a small bunch of lilacs. He held them out to Hermione as he neared her table. She reluctantly took the flowers and asked,

"What are these for?" It seemed rather unlike Tom Riddle to give a gift purely out of the goodness of his heart. Hermione was unsurprised, then, when Tom curled up his mouth knowingly and said,

"They're a congratulatory gift."

Hermione frowned down at the lilacs, then back up at Tom. "For what am I to be congratulated?" she asked. Tom raised his eyebrows and said simply,

"For your assignment as Head Girl for the coming term. Congratulations, Miss _Villeneuve._ " He pulled out a small scroll from his blazer and held that out to Hermione as he had the lilacs. She felt her heart thud a bit as she broke the seal upon the scroll and read over Headmaster Dippet's letter informing her that she had, indeed, been made Head Girl. Hermione felt her eyebrows crumple in confusion.

"Why would they make _me_ Head Girl?" she demanded. "There are plenty of Hogwarts girls who have been here since their first years and would be perfectly qualified. The other students aren't going to take this well. This doesn't make sense. I mean to say, I am honoured, but, Headmaster Dippet -"

"Is very easily persuaded when he needs to be." Tom's crooked smile widened, and his dark eyes glinted dangerously. Hermione felt her mouth drop open.

"Tom, you can't - you can't simply _force_ people to do whatever you want."

"I can do whatever I please," Tom droned matter-of-factly. "Besides which, I did not 'force' the Headmaster to do anything. I simply spoke reason to him. He agreed, after a time, that you were the best choice for the position."

Hermione scowled at him, feeling her cheeks go hot with a mixture of embarrassment, indignation, and confused gratitude. She _wanted_ to be Head Girl, of course. Even in 'her' time, she'd hoped that her seventh year would be spent in the position. But she had always rather hoped to earn the spot. Having Tom Riddle manipulate Headmaster Dippet into bestowing the honour made it all rather bitter. She crumpled the scroll in her hand and put the lilacs down upon the library table.

"I'm going to the Headmaster's office," she said briskly. "I shall inform him that I do not believe myself worthy of this honour, and I shall suggest that he choose someone else. Maggie Prewett, perhaps, or that girl from Ravenclaw who gives first-years a wicked glare when they're too boisterous in the corridors. What's her name again? Mildred, isn't it? Yes. He should choose Maggie or Mildred, and I shall tell him so."

She began to walk away from Tom, pursing her lips determinedly. She gasped when she felt his hand reach for her elbow to stop her. His fingers were light but insistent upon her as they pulled her back. Hermione's stomach fluttered as she whirled around toward him.

"You simply want our dormitories to be next door to one another!" she accused, sniffing righteously. Tom smiled serenely and shrugged.

"That would be an added benefit," he admitted, "but it isn't my sole reason for pressing for your appointment. I would be _very happy_ , Hermione, if you would simply accept the position with grace and gratitude."

"Well, I am not in the business of ensuring your happiness," Hermione snapped. She lowered her eyes from Tom, for it was weakening her angry resolve to see the way his dark eyes stared at her with surprising warmth. "I do not require your advocacy on my behalf, Tom," she mumbled. "I neither want nor need your help."

"You don't need anyone's help," Tom agreed firmly, and Hermione raised her eyes to him again and furrowed her brows in confusion. He continued calmly, "I did not advocate for your appointment for altruistic reasons, Miss Granger. I assure you I have entirely selfish motives in wanting you as Head Girl. Here… take these if you're leaving." He picked up the lilacs from the table and held them out to Hermione again. "Congratulations," he said smoothly.

Hermione rather snatched the flowers from his hand and huffed a bit, feeling conflicted and bemused as she stormed out of the library.

* * *

Lord Voldemort awoke from his slumber with a jolt and a gasp. He sprang up to a sitting position, trying to make sense of where - and _when_ \- he was. His dream had been more than the mere conjurings of his sleeping mind, he realised. It had been a memory.

Ten minutes later he stepped out of the fireplace in Hermione's headmistress chambers at Hogwarts, the green flames of his Floo transport flaring behind him.

"Hermione!" he called, striding angrily through her sitting-room and into her bedroom. He was not entirely surprised to see that she wasn't asleep. Instead, she sat upright in her bed, surrounded by several floating candles. She was reading, as she so often did, and she set down her book when Voldemort came storming through the door.

"What's happened?" she demanded, squirming uncomfortably upon her duvet. Voldemort felt his ears ring with rage as he barked,

"Where is she?"

Hermione looked mildly confused as she squeaked, "Where is _who_ , Tom?"

"Don't. Don't pretend you have no idea." Voldemort's words seethed through his clenched teeth. He jabbed his wand at Hermione and growled, " _Legilimens._ "

He was instantly confronted with her mental barriers; he had taught her Occlumency decades earlier, and she was now quite accomplished at the art of blocking him out. But he pushed, harder and harder, against her mind. Eventually, she yielded, willingly removing her mental block. Voldemort flipped through her mind, searching for exactly the memory he needed.

 _Hermione knocked gently upon the heavy office door. She shifted a bit, adjusting the weight of the small girl she carried._

" _Enter."_

 _His voice was sharp, irritated. Hermione contemplated whether or not it was wise to bother him just now, but she glanced to the raven-haired child on her hip and then turned the knob upon the door._

" _She was asking for you," Hermione said softly. Tom - Lord Voldemort - glanced up impatiently from the parchment upon which he'd been scribbling. He looked young, still likely not thirty years of age. His scowl softened a bit when he met the gaze of the toddler upon Hermione's hip. The child scrambled to get down, and Hermione set her gently upon the floor._

 _The child giggled and dashed ungracefully across the office, throwing up her tiny hands when she reached her father. Tom reached down to pick the child up and arranged her upon his lap._

" _Good morning, Georgiana," he greeted her. "Are you going to help me with my work?"_

" _Yes!" The child, Georgiana, nodded eagerly and reached for the quill upon Tom's desk. She thrust it out to her father, and he chuckled darkly as he took it from her. He looked up to Hermione and nodded._

" _I'll bring her back to you in a bit," he said coolly, and Hermione felt her lips curve into a contented smile._

" _Georgie," she prompted, and the little girl raised her dark, curious eyes. Hermione murmured, "Mummy will be just out here, in the sitting-room. You be good for your father, you understand?"_

" _Yes!" Georgiana said again, folding her hands obediently upon her lap. Hermione shook her head and laughed softly, turning to go from the room. As she shut the office door behind her, she heard Tom's voice say softly,_

" _Here, Georgie. You sign this one. They'll take your signature more seriously than mine, anyway."_

Voldemort reeled as he yanked himself from Hermione's mind. She had dissolved into frantic tears where she sat upon the bed, her fingers tangling themselves in her grey hair. Her thin back heaved with her sobs, and she shook her head firmly.

"You were not… I didn't put those into the Pensieve," she insisted.

"Where is the girl?" Voldemort heard the venom in his voice as he realised his own mind contained no memories of the child. All he had was the dream from which he'd awoken - a dream in which Hermione clung to him as they read a letter. He knew the answer, he suspected, but he snarled once more, "Where is she?"

Hermione's eyes were red-rimmed and puffy when she raised her head to him. She jabbed her chin up a bit and swiped tears from her cheeks as she said in a shaking voice, "She's gone, Tom. They tried to use her as leverage, in a last-ditch effort against you. They took her, and… well, just look."

He entered her mind again and felt sick at the memory Hermione had thrust forward.

 _Spells were flying all about the cavernous space. Hermione was busy repelling curses as she sprinted toward little Georgiana, who had been bound to a chair with the Incarcerous spell._

 _Georgiana was older now, perhaps seven or eight years of age, and she squirmed and struggled against the chair as Hermione raced toward her._

" _Mum!" she cried suddenly, "Behind you!"_

 _Hermione whirled around to see a hulking Auror raising his wand toward her. He opened his mouth to cast a curse, but Hermione was faster. She shrieked, "Stupefy!"_

 _The massive Auror hurtled backward through the air and landed with a thud upon the floor. He was unconscious, but twitched a bit upon the ground from the force of Hermione's spell._

" _Mum!"_

 _She turned back round to the chair where they'd bound Georgiana. A female Auror stood beside the chair, her wand pointed deliberately at the child._

" _Hermione, I have no desire to harm this girl," the red-haired Auror said firmly. "Surrender your wand and urge your husband to do the same, and we will let Georgiana go. Otherwise, the consequences will be… dire."_

" _Let her go, Maggie." Hermione held her wand toward Maggie Prewett with a fiercely trembling hand. "You may not use my child like this. Let her go."_

 _Maggie Prewett shook her head with apparent regret and sighed heavily. "Say goodbye to your mother, Georgie," she mumbled to the child. "You shan't be seeing her for some time, unless she and your father see reason."_

" _Let her go, Maggie!" Hermione's voice cracked as she willed away the tears that stung her eyes. She flicked her eyes to meet Georgiana's, and she noticed once more how much the child's eyes resembled her father's. The room still flashed with flying curses, and Hermione saw a green flash out of the corner of her eye, saw a figure crumple to the floor._

" _Margaret Prewett!" Tom's voice was booming and authoritative in the large space. Hermione did not take her eyes from Georgiana's; she tried to radiate comfort to the child even as her shaking wand was aimed at the Auror. Tom's voice rang out again, from metres away, "If you harm my daughter, you will learn what pain truly is. Release her at once, or you and the Ministry shall know the fullness of my wrath. Now, Miss Prewett."_

 _Hermione flicked her wand a few inches to the left and impulsively cried out, "Emancipare!"_

 _The magical binds surrounding Georgiana dissolved, but Maggie Prewett quickly grasped at the girl's elbow before she could rise from the chair. She cast one final, disappointed gaze to Hermione, and then she Disapparated from the room with the girl._

 _Hermione screamed, falling to her knees._

* * *

Hermione set down the copy of the _Daily Prophet_ she'd been reading and lay back upon the grass. She sighed and shut her eyes against the blazing sunlight that beat down upon the courtyard. There was stillness all about her; the air was stagnant and warm, and the emptiness of the school meant an almost oppressive silence. She might have fallen asleep there upon the grass, except that her mind was racing.

The newspaper had stated that the Hogwarts Express would be leaving in three days' time from King's Cross, ferrying any students whose parents wished for them to return to school for the remainder of the holidays. The sudden intensification of the Muggle War had been mirrored by increasing violence by Grindelwald's forces. Just as Muggle parents had evacuated their children from British cities, wizarding parents were being urged to send their children back to Hogwarts for safekeeping.

Hermione wondered who would be on the train when it pulled back into Hogsmeade. Many of the students' parents had been hesitant to lose the time with their children over summer holidays. Now, though, she thought, they would be fools not to send their offspring back to school. Just in the past two weeks, a dozen witches and wizards had been murdered in what the Ministry had determined to be calculated assassinations by allies of Grindelwald.

Meanwhile, an entire family of British wizards had been killed in Oradour-sur-Glane, in France. The mother and father and their two teenaged children had been in the small town to convince their eldest child, a daughter, to return to Britain. She'd married a French Muggle, apparently, and stubbornly remained with him despite the perils of the war. The _Daily Prophet_ recorded that the entire family violated the International Statute for Secrecy in their attempts to protect Muggles in the town as Nazi forces invaded and carried out a massacre. Ultimately, however, they were all shot with Muggle weapons and killed.

Hermione could not imagine that the parents of Hogwarts students would read such a story and not be struck with fear. While Hermione knew full well that Muggle Nazi forces had never invaded Britain during the Second World War, that fear still lingered in the minds of British parents, wizarding and Muggle alike. So Hermione assumed that there would be quite a few pupils aboard the Hogwarts Express when it returned to Hogsmeade.

Her reverie was broken by the soft padding of feet somewhere behind her head. She did not need to open her eyes to know who it was.

"Hello, Tom," she murmured. The soft footsteps stopped and she heard his voice above her.

"Headmaster Dippet wishes for you and I to move our belongings into the Head Girl and Head Boy dormitories," he informed her. "There will be students returning in a few days, and he wishes for us to begin our duties a bit early."

Hermione sighed. "I don't suppose any of that was your idea?"

She sensed Tom's hesitation for a brief moment, and then he said, "I should like very much to say that I once again… _urged_ … the Headmaster to do my bidding. However, I must admit that I was simply informed of this development during a meeting this morning."

"What does Dumbledore think of all this?" Hermione posited thoughtfully.

"What does Dumbledore think of _what_?" Tom asked sharply. "Of you being Head Girl?"

"No." Hermione sighed impatiently and put her hands up to shield her eyes. She squinted up at Tom, blinded momentarily by the sunlight. "Of the wars," she clarified. "Do you suppose he means to do anything about Grindelwald?"

"Grindelwald has holed himself up in Nurmengard," Tom informed her matter-of-factly. "If anyone is likely to go there and confront him, it's Dumbledore. But I suspect the fool may encounter a great deal of difficulty summoning the will to kill his oldest friend."

Hermione wondered how it was that Tom knew so much about Dumbledore's history with Grindelwald. She sat up and frowned up at him. Before she could ask him about any of that, he continued,

"Are you aware that the Ministry is sending Dementors to guard Hogwarts?"

Hermione felt her jaw go slack. Then she sneered in distaste, remembering what it had been like in her third year when the school grounds had swarmed with Dementors.

"I suppose it's a good thing I've got a strong corporeal Patronus," she muttered disdainfully.

"I beg your pardon?" Tom's voice was cold and hard as he stared sceptically down at Hermione. She huffed a bit at his disbelief. Of course, she knew that Conjuring a Patronus was exceptionally advanced magic, but Harry Potter had taught her and others how to do it properly more than a year previously.

Harry, who himself had advanced so far magically so that he might fight off Voldemort. Tom.

Hermione felt an uncomfortable queasy pit in her stomach as she remembered what it had been like when Dumbledore's Army had assembled in the Room of Requirement and practiced their Patronus charms. The looks of sheer glee upon the faces of the successful, the exasperated sighs of those who were unable to cast the complicated spell.

"You can Conjure a Patronus?" Tom asked, cocking an eyebrow at Hermione. She pulled herself off the ground, brushing away bits of grass from her skirt and blouse.

"Yes, I can," she said rather haughtily. "If you must know, some friends of mine and I learnt to do it because _you_ made us fear for our lives."

Tom smirked and chuckled, and Hermione felt herself growing angry at how proud he seemed. He seemed positively _amused_ by the notion that he'd instilled such fear. Hermione gritted her teeth.

"I learned quite a bit of powerful magic, you know… because of your wickedness."

"Well, you're welcome, then," Tom shrugged. "Who might have supposed that my aspirations might prompt you to become a more powerful witch?"

Hermione gasped a bit, wanting to strike his smooth cheek with her hand and tell him what horrid things he had done - would do - that would ruin so many lives. But she found herself unable to say anything as she contemplated his words. Could it be that his evil nature during 'her' time had indeed encouraged her to learn more advanced practical magic than she might have otherwise done?

Well, she realised, in any case, she was not about to thank him for it.

"Can _you_ Conjure a Patronus?" she demanded mockingly, crossing her arms over her chest. She suspected that Tom had probably never even attempted the spell; it was far beyond N.E.W.T.-level magic and was not a commonly learned skill.

"No," Tom admitted, squaring his jaw. Hermione jolted in surprise at the firm way he'd answered. Tom shifted upon his feet and said uneasily, "I have tried, many times. I am consistently unable to produce a sufficiently happy memory."

"Oh." Hermione nodded, realising then how very unhappy Tom's life had been. He was certainly a powerful enough wizard for the spell, but of course a very happy memory was required. If he did not have one…

"Perhaps I ought to try again," Tom suggested hesitantly. "I have… experienced things since my last attempt… things that I believe might be powerful enough to assist me…"

He trailed off, licking his lip rather nervously as he stared at Hermione. She stepped nearer him and reached up to cup his jaw in her hand.

"Things like this?" she found herself asking, and she pushed up onto her tip-toes. She pressed her lips against his and tasted the warmth of his kiss. She sighed against his mouth, squealing a little when his hands grasped her waist and yanked her against his body. Tom pulled away and planted a soft kiss upon her forehead before looking down into her eyes.

"Yes," he nodded reluctantly. "Things like that."

Hermione smiled warmly and stepped away from Tom, pulling out her wand and directing it up into the air.

"Shall I show you?" she offered, and Tom shrugged halfheartedly. She watched him feign disinterest as he said,

"There aren't any Dementors about, so I don't know why you would expend the energy."

"To prove to you that I can do it!" Hermione chuckled at the way Tom scowled. She shut her eyes and took a deep, steadying breath.

She summoned the happiest memory she could think of. She saw her mother and father, giggling with her on Christmas morning as she tore into gifts. She curled up her lips as she remembered the way they'd sung carols together, the way they'd opened Christmas crackers and snuggled before their warm fireplace. Hermione began to pull her wand into a steady circular motion to strengthen her spell, and then she incanted,

" _Expecto Patronum!"_

She opened her eyes to see a silver stream pour forth from the tip of her wand, and she grinned in satisfaction when the charm began to take shape. She fully expected to see the otter she'd cast so many times, but she frowned when she saw her Patronus' form.

"A _crow?"_ she heard Tom say from beside her. Hermione whirled to face him, taking in the way he seemed both impressed and surprised. She lowered her wand and knew that her Patronus had dissolved into the air. Tom cocked an eyebrow at her. "Terribly impressive spellwork, Hermione. Though I must say I was not expecting that particular animal…"

"I - It was always an otter." Hermione shook her head in disbelief and swallowed heavily. "My Patronus is an otter."

"It would appear as though your Patronus is a crow." Tom spoke mockingly, smiling with condescension at Hermione. She turned and stared at the air where she'd cast the spell and breathed shakily through her nostrils.

"Well, you go on, then," she said rather angrily to Tom. "Let's see you do it."

Tom shook his head firmly and said, "Have you ever heard of Raczidian?" he asked her, and Hermione thought of the story of the Dark wizard who had been consumed by maggots after attempting a Patronus. The moral of that story was that even competent wizards required purity of heart to succeed with this particular magic. Tom obviously doubted what would come out of his wand if he were to try the spell. "Besides," he insisted with a small sniff, "I've no need of a Patronus. I do not fear Dementors."

"You said yourself that you've got happy memories now," Hermione reminded him. "Why not see whether you can do it, just to know?"

"It doesn't matter," Tom said sharply. "I have no need of it." Suddenly he shifted his face to appear bored and impassive, and he said, "I'm going to the dungeons; I should like to get my things moved into the Head Boy's dormitory before dinner. I suggest you go up to Gryffindor Tower and do the same. You know where the Head Girl's room is, I suppose?"

Hermione huffed and gritted her teeth. "Yes, Tom," she said. "I know where it is."

"See you at dinner, then," Tom nodded, turning and striding purposefully from the courtyard.

* * *

"What can be done?" Voldemort demanded, pacing his office with his hands clasped behind his back.

"Nothing can be done, My Lord." If Severus Snape was frightened of his master's anger, he was masking it well. "Time travel to alter the timeline and prevent her death would inevitably lead to a negative alteration of your own path. It is tragic, My Lord, but Georgiana's death prompted an outpouring of popular support for your cause. All the while they had her in Azkaban, you gained followers. You gained power. When Ignatius Tuft ordered the girl killed, your retaliation was swift and thorough. Through her death, Georgiana ensured that you would be cemented into power."

Voldemort felt a surge of anger flow through his veins. He paused at the window and glared out at the rain. Normally, rain soothed him. Today, it irritated him. He stared through the glass and sneered to Snape,

"Do you suppose, Severus, that I would be unable to assume power without the death of my daughter?"

"Not at all, My Lord," Snape said quickly. "I simply mean to suggest that any attempt to alter the timeline and save her might have terrible unintended consequences."

Voldemort turned slowly round to face Snape. He sniffed a bit and asked, "Why is it that Hermione blocked the memory from me? Why is it that she appears to have moved on so thoroughly? Was she… did she not care for the girl?"

His voice snapped out the last question in an accusing fashion, and he watched Snape's brows furrow deeply as he shook his head.

"My Lord," Snape said carefully, "From what I understand, the Lady was completely grief-stricken. She was, I have been told, utterly inconsolable for years after Georgiana… after they murdered her." Snape said the last bit firmly, as if to affirm that he abhorred the girl's death as much as anyone else. "I have been told… by _you_ , My Lord… that the Lady was drawn more firmly toward your cause in the wake of Georgiana's demise. That her grief and anger turned her completely against the Ministry. Against Albus Dumbledore. Indeed, My Lord, it was she who urged you to eliminate Dumbledore. She blamed the old man for Georgiana; she believed that Dumbledore had urged the Ministry to administer the Dementor's Kiss and subsequently have her killed."

Voldemort turned back toward the window and stared outside again. So Hermione had attempted - foolishly, he thought - to hide memories of their daughter when she implanted the past into Voldemort's mind. But she hadn't been thorough enough; his dream had prompted him to invade her mind and learn the truth. After some forceful prompting, she'd put more memories of Georgiana into the Pensieve and given them to Voldemort. He could begin to understand why it was that she'd suppressed the memories. Beyond the pain of reliving them, she likely feared that Voldemort would want to manipulate the past in order to avoid Georgiana's death. But she had always been terribly clever, and once again she'd been bright enough and strong enough to put reason and logic first.

"You may go, Severus," Voldemort said in a sharp whisper. "Send in my wife, will you?"

"My Lord." Voldemort watched Snape bow reverently in the reflection of the window. He sighed as the door opened and shut quietly, and he stood in contemplative silence for a few minutes until the door creaked open again.

"Tom?" Hermione's voice was soft and gentle at the door.

He did not turn to face her. He did not suppose he could, not to say what he needed to say now. He gritted his teeth and shut his eyes, seeing once again the way Hermione had collapsed onto her knees after Georgiana had disappeared from before her eyes. He heard her agonised shriek of grief after she'd learned of the girl's death.

And he saw other things, too. He saw her in an elegant white gown, a contented smile painted upon her face. He saw her eyes gleam with happiness as Tom lowered himself onto one knee. He saw her beneath him, young and nubile and passionate, as he unbuttoned her school blouse. He saw himself handing over lilacs, time and again. Sometimes it was for her birthday, and later for wedding anniversaries. Often, it was for no reason at all. She always took the flowers and smelled them contentedly, murmuring her thanks. And Tom would simply nod once, curtly.

"Shut the door, Hermione," Voldemort commanded, and he heard the lock click as she wisely warded up the room. Voldemort glared out onto the grounds of The Regia, watching the way the rain thudded upon the paths and the way the wind bent the trees. He was silent for quite some time, and Hermione was, as well, waiting for him to speak. At last, he did, trying to keep his voice steady and sure.

"I love you, Hermione," he said. "I always have. I should have told you decades ago. I'm not entirely sure why I did not. Perhaps I doubted it; perhaps I believed I was incapable of such an emotion. More likely, I knew full well how I felt, but was unwilling to voice such a weakening thought."

He sighed again and turned round, meeting Hermione's wide chestnut eyes. Her hands wrung tightly together in front of her robes. Her face, aged but still beautiful, contorted a bit as she fought visibly to control her expression. Voldemort stalked toward her, taking in the smell of spring that she'd brought into the room.

"I should have told you," he said again. "I should have told you a hundred times a day. I love you."

* * *

Tom was pleasantly surprised with the Head Boy's dormitory. It was on the third floor, in a room off the Armoury corridor. The dormitory was pleasant and spacious, and even possessed a small, private bathroom. More importantly, it was separated by a single wall from the Head Girl's dormitory.

Tom arranged his textbooks upon the stone shelf that was built into the wall beside his bed. As he did, he contemplated what had happened in the courtyard. He could still see the look of abject horror upon Hermione's face as she realised her Patronus was not the form she was used to seeing. It _did_ seem odd to Tom; he'd read extensively about the charm despite feeling no use for it, but he'd never seen any evidence of a Patronus changing form against the caster's will.

A gentle knock upon the dormitory door broke Tom from his thoughts. He hurried across the room and reached for the door handle, feeling a small flutter in his chest as he wondered whether Hermione had done the knocking. He flung the door open - a bit too eagerly, he quickly realised - but his face settled into an angry scowl when he saw who stood upon the other side of the threshold.

"Professor Dumbledore," Tom acknowledged, briskly erasing the aggression from his face. The Transfiguration professor nodded with an annoyingly patient expression and said,

"Tom, I do hope you find your new accommodations comfortable."

"They will suffice, Professor." Tom struggled not to sound overly impertinent, but he had no desire to be simpering with Dumbledore, either.

"And has Miss Villeneuve settled into her room?" Dumbledore asked, feigning innocence and curiosity. Tom sucked on his bottom lip and said mildly,

"I've no idea, Sir. I did inform her that Headmaster Dippet wanted us to be moved in before the Hogwarts Express returns. I assume she will be expeditious about transferring her belongings."

"Indeed. She is a responsible young witch," Dumbledore acknowledged. "Headmaster Dippet and I expect the same of you, Tom. Responsibility. Not only with your ordinary duties as Head Boy, but also as regards your new accommodations."

Tom knew precisely what Dumbledore meant. The professor was warning Tom to stay out of Hermione's room, and not to allow the girl into his own room. He was warning Tom not to be privately intimate with Hermione, not to 'abuse' his position and break school rules. But Tom did not enjoy being bossed about, least of all by Albus Dumbledore. He smiled serenely and nodded.

"I promise you, Professor Dumbledore, you shall see nothing but responsibility from me as regards my accommodation. It shall be so spic and span that the House-Elves shall have nothing to do. If there's nothing else, Sir, I had hoped to finish organising my belongings before dinner. Good afternoon."

He cocked an eyebrow up at Dumbledore as if to challenge the old wizard to further confrontation. Instead, Dumbledore merely gave Tom his maddeningly calm smile, nodded, and said quietly, "Good afternoon, Tom."

* * *

Tom strode into the Common Room with his head tipped up and his shoulders back. He needed to ensure that the Slytherins who had come crawling back to school understood who was in charge.

"All right, Tom?" he heard from his left, and he turned to see Avery, Mulciber, and Nott sprawled about the armchairs and divan in front of the great fireplace. Orion Black sat upon the ground, leaning back against a low table as he scanned through a newspaper.

"Somehow I suspected that would all come scrambling back to school once danger made itself evident," Tom said imperiously. Avery had his long, skinny legs draped over the arm of the divan, so Tom cleared his throat, rolled his eyes a bit, and said, "Have some respect for the furniture, will you, Avery? Sit up."

The boy did, swinging his legs obediently to the front of the divan. The others straightened their posture as if to prevent Tom from scolding them, too. Tom walked over to the group of boys and jerked his head to make Mulciber rise from the most comfortable chair. Mulciber stood swiftly and moved to sit beside Avery on the divan. Tom settled into the chair and placed his hands upon his knees.

"Shortest summer holidays _I've_ ever had," whined Orion Black from the ground. He scowled rather childishly and said, "Wasn't home hardly a week before Mum and Dad was pushing me back onto the damned train. Word is, too, that they're organising 'supplementary summer lessons' since so many of us have come back."

Tom had not been surprised to hear Dippet's announcement that additional lessons would be held. Nearly one hundred students had returned to Hogwarts, and there was a great need to keep them all occupied until the autumn term. Most of the staff had returned when summoned, so it truly felt as though there had been no break at all from the end of the school year. Tom drummed his fingers upon his knees and drawled,

"Yes. I'm intending on taking supplementary Defence Against the Dark Arts and Potions lessons."

"We'll sign up for those as well," Nott nodded eagerly, flicking his eyes from Mulciber to Avery.

"I want to take Care of Magical Creatures. I'm interested to see what Kettleburn does when told he can work outside the normal curriculum." Orion Black folded up the newspaper he was reading and grinned widely.

"I want you to speak with Kettleburn, Black," said Tom. "Express a great interest in thestrals."

"Thestrals?" Orion repeated, frowning deeply. "But I can't see them, Tom; I've never witnessed -"

"That is of little consequence now," Tom said firmly. "I have no doubt that someday you will be perfectly capable of seeing a thestral, Black. The world is Dark and dangerous, you know. The more experience one has with such creatures, the better."

Orion Black flashed a horrified expression at Tom before shutting his mouth and nodding mutely. "I shall ask him to teach on thestrals, then," Orion said quietly.

"Hello, Tom." Abraxas Malfoy appeared before the fireplace. His hulking form and silvery-blonde hair made him appear ten years older, and Tom shifted rather uncomfortably in his chair. He disliked the notion of Malfoy appearing powerful and attractive.

"Malfoy," he greeted sharply. He gestured to the floor beside Orion Black and said, "Sit."

Abraxas eyed the Turkish rug with a note of disdain, and he cleared his throat before heaving himself onto the ground and attempting to arrange his limbs into a sitting position.

"I've got Quidditch practise in ten minutes," Abraxas intoned. "Just a load of scrimmage matches, you know, for the summer. But I wanted to tell you something, Tom."

Tom cocked an eyebrow at Abraxas and nodded. Avery and Nott leaned forward a bit expectantly.

"My uncle has been fighting for Grindelwald for several years, as you know," Malfoy began hesitantly. "He works primarily to eliminate Muggles on the Continent who pose a threat or danger to the consolidation of Grindelwald's wizarding empire."

"Your uncle's an executioner?" Orion Black said disbelievingly. Malfoy scowled at Black and sneered,

"They're only Muggles, Black." He rolled his eyes a bit and looked up to Tom before continuing, "In any case, Tom, it seems that Grindelwald's still at Nurmengard. He fears that Albus Dumbledore is going to come and try to kill him. I was discussing with my father... and my uncle... you see, Tom, there are a great many people here in Britain who believe Grindelwald has the right idea. People who wish to see the wizarding world take its rightful place atop Muggle society. But Grindelwald's got an image problem in Britain. There are many who find him abrasive and unpleasant when they meet him, and even more who fear he is little more than a paranoid fanatic. My uncle says that Grindelwald is a very powerful wizard, but a rather terrible tactician who would make an awful ruler."

"So what is it that you suggest, Malfoy?" asked Tom sceptically. "Why don't you go speak with Dumbledore and urge him to go to Nurmengard if so many oppose Grindelwald?"

"Well, Tom, it's... my father and uncle, you see... they think that Dumbledore's the wrong man for the job. It's not that Grindelwald shouldn't be eliminated - for the good of the wizarding Cause, you know. The problem is that if Dumbledore kills Grindelwald, then many people, misguided and misinformed, may be inclined to view Dumbledore as a hero."

Tom curled up his lip in disgust at the thought of that, at the thought of Albus Dumbledore being hailed throughout Britain as the Great Wizard Who Defeated Darkness. He nodded in understanding, finally comprehending what it was that Malfoy was suggesting.

"So who do you - or, rather, your father and your uncle - think ought to eliminate Grindelwald, then?"

"You, of course," Malfoy said vehemently. The other boys nodded their assent, except for Orion Black, who looked a bit terrified. Mulciber said encouragingly,

"Tom, we all think you're the future of wizarding Britain. Look about the world today. Conflict, chaos, everywhere. But it's not achieving anything. We all think - and our parents, too, you know - we all think that wizards need a figure to rally behind. Someone to unite us against the idiotic world of Muggles. All of us here think you're that man, Tom."

Tom felt a swell of pride in his chest and couldn't help but smirk as he cast his eyes about to see the eager expressions of his assembled 'friends.' He realised at once that he wasn't blindly ambitious, after all. He truly _was_ charismatic, and powerful, enough to gain the admiration of those around him.

"We shall begin tactical preparations at once," he said firmly. "I want to be at Nurmengard by Christmas."

* * *

Hermione walked briskly up the stairs to Gryffindor Tower, murmuring a greeting or two as she passed walls full of portraits. She had just finished her post-curfew rounds and had decided she wanted to stop into the Gryffindor girls' dormitories to say goodnight to Betty and Maggie. Both girls had returned to school despite their earlier insistence that they both wished to spend the summer holidays at home. At dinner, Hermione had scarcely had a chance to speak with them. She'd been busy supervising the transfer of luggage from the Hogwarts Express by the House-Elves, and she'd been left with only ten minutes to scarf down her meal.

Hermione stepped up to the portrait of the Fat Lady and smiled warmly. " _Profugus,_ " she said, by way of giving the password, and the Fat Lady nodded and swung open.

"Authority suits you, my dear," said the portrait as Hermione climbed through the hole into the Common Room. She was relieved to see that everyone had made their way to their dormitories and that she wouldn't have to scold anyone for being out too late. She climbed the stairs to the girls' dormitories and knocked lightly upon the rising seventh-years' door.

A few moments later, the door swung open, and Betty Cattermole stood on the other side of threshold. Her pretty face was slathered with Overnight Smoothing Potion, and her blonde hair was neatly wrapped around curlers. Betty grinned and pulled Hermione into the dormitory and called,

"Maggie! Hermione's here!"

Maggie Prewett peeled back the curtains of her bed and peered out groggily. Her red hair fell in a thick braid down her back, and she smiled at Hermione as she climbed out from beneath her duvet.

"I still can't believe they made you Head Girl!" Maggie said as she strode across the room. "I mean to say, it makes perfect sense, of course. You're brilliant in lessons and all. But you must have truly impressed Dippet in order to be made Head Girl after only a few months at the school!"

There was no vitriol in Maggie's voice, nor any trace of sarcasm or jealousy. Still, Hermione shook her head and said humbly,

"It should have been you, Maggie. Or you, Betty. I felt awful accepting the appointment."

"But Tom Riddle's Head Boy!" Betty reminded her. "You'll be working alongside him all year! Just make sure you two are _decent_ , you know, what with your rooms just next-door to one another!"

Betty and Maggie both giggled a bit at that, and Hermione frowned as she realised just how 'indecent' she'd been with Tom recently. She cleared her throat and said,

"I wanted to tell you both... I've actually somewhat taken a liking to Tom."

Betty's eyes went wide with glee, and she exchanged excited glances with Maggie. "Do tell!" Betty cried.

Hermione felt her cheeks flush a bit. She couldn't tell the girls that she and Tom had initially been drawn to one another by smelling the other in Slughorn's Amortentia potion. That was far too embarrassing. She wrapped her arms about herself and shrugged. "He's... very charismatic," Hermione admitted. "It felt as though the harder I resisted him, the more I wanted to spend time with him. It's irritating, really. Infuriating, if I'm honest."

"Don't fight it, Hermione," Betty said encouragingly, putting her hand on Hermione's elbow. She shut her eyes and tipped up her chin, and then she said confidently, "I believe very thoroughly in fate, you know. And you and Tom seem _perfect_ for one another. I think you were brought here to be with him!"

Hermione felt a shudder of cold fear spike through her veins. "Brought here?" she repeated numbly. Betty nodded and furrowed her brows.

"From the Continent," she clarified. "From France. I think you were allowed to transfer to Hogwarts so that you might meet Tom Riddle. Who knows, Hermione? Perhaps someday you'll be Madam Hermione Riddle!"

She and Maggie giggled again, but Hermione found herself unable to join in with their mirth.

"It's getting late," Hermione said matter-of-factly. "I'm off to bed. Goodnight, you two."

"Goodnight, Madam Riddle!" Betty teased as Hermione left the room.

* * *

"My Lord, an owl was recently received from the Minister for Magic in Germany."

Rodolphus Lestrange sank slowly into the chair opposite Voldemort's desk. Lord Voldemort raised his eyebrows expectantly. "And?" he prompted.

"My Lord, the German Minister... Andreas Stoltz, My Lord... he writes to 'inform you' that Germany has no desire to ally itself with Britain. He cites past hostilities between the countries -"

"Hostilities?" Voldemort repeated in disbelief. "Britain and Germany are historical enemies only as far as Muggles are concerned. And even the British and German Muggles themselves seem to get along just fine these days. This Andreas Stoltz... does he fail to realise that if I want Germany, I shall simply take it?"

Rodolphus Lestrange looked uncomfortable for a brief moment. Then he said, rather hesitantly, "We do have several moles planted inside the German Ministry, My Lord. It would be quite simple, I think, to quickly -"

"Yes." Voldemort nodded his approval, and Rodolphus looked rather pleased. Voldemort continued, "Have Minister Stoltz eliminated, Lestrange, and replace him with someone more willing. I want Germany fully compliant by Christmas."

"I shall send an owl immediately, My Lord." Rodolphus rose from his chair and bowed, backing out of the office.

Voldemort read letters for the next hour in silence. Some were entreaties for positions at the Ministry. Others were declarations of personal loyalty and admiration. There were a few complaints, with which Voldemort found minimal interest. He broke the wax seal on a rather thick envelope to find it was a formal request for registration of a Squib. Voldemort curled his lip in distaste and tossed the letter aside. Macnair could handle that one, he figured.

There was a gentle knock upon the office door - three little raps, just like she'd always done. Voldemort raised his eyes and waited for the door to open; he rarely bothered giving Hermione permission to enter his office anymore.

She stepped inside a moment later and wordlessly sat in the chair opposite his desk. Voldemort raised his eyebrows a bit at her and flashed her a distracted smile. She did not smile back.

"I've just signed this year's Hogwarts admissions letters," Hermione said, and Voldemort frowned to hear the worry lacing her voice.

"Is there a problem?" he asked.

She hesitated for a brief moment. Then, finally, she said, "The Pureblood and Half-Blood population is lower than ever, Tom. I normally admit forty students per autumn term. These past few years, that number has been shrinking. This year, I've only got twenty-six coming in."

Voldemort turned down his lips and furrowed his brow. "Perhaps you should recruit students who might otherwise attend Beauxbatons or Durmstrang -"

"No," Hermione interjected. Tom grunted softly at her forcefulness; she was the only one who interrupted him without punishment. Hermione shook her head. "We need to reconsider the admissions limitations. There are plenty of perfectly talented Muggle-born witches and wizards, Tom. Do you forget that I myself am Muggle-born? Put them into a special dormitory if you must. Encourage them to procreate with Half-Bloods if you must. But Wizarding Britain is facing a demographic crisis. The very future of a Magical population - any Magical population - is at stake. It is foolish to pretend that Muggle-borns can not produce Magic, or that they don't produce Magical offspring. If you insist upon continuing to exclude them, your ranks of Purebloods and Half-Bloods will be gone in a few generations at most."

Voldemort narrowed his eyes and scowled deeply at her. He drummed his fingertips upon his desk. He thoroughly disliked when Hermione spoke sense to him, particularly when her logic contradicted him.

"I can scarcely be expected to rescind the very foundation of my government, Hermione," he insisted. "It would make me appear weak and fickle."

Hermione nodded. "I realise that. I implore you to consider probationary admissions for a few Muggle-borns per year, along with a public pledge to utilise them to increase the overall Magical population. Inbreeding produces Squibs, Tom. Have you noticed the uptick in Squib registrations in the past five years?"

Tom did not answer. He continued drumming his fingertips and ground his teeth. There was a pregnant pause, and then Hermione said gently,

"Think on it, Tom. Please notify me when you've made a decision." She rose and started to walk from the room.

"Hermione," Voldemort said, more roughly than he'd intended. She turned round, her grey curls tumbling elegantly over her shoulder. He stared at her for a beat, and then spoke in what sounded more like a request than a command - a tone of voice reserved for her alone.

"Stay for tea, will you?"

She quirked up the corner of her mouth and stepped away from the door, giving a conciliatory nod to the man who had once been Tom Riddle.

* * *

Hermione glanced up at a particularly intimidating suit of armour, admiring he way the moonlight gleamed off the metal. She paused in her steps and let her eyes wander out the window to the moon itself. It looked the same, she pondered, as the moon she'd always seen. But this was a different world. No one she'd known for the first eighteen years of her life was here. They would look upon the same moon, fifty years later, but it was a different world. She sighed lightly and scuffed her foot upon the floor as if to make sure this time and place was real.

"Hermione... Finished your rounds, have you?"

She turned at the sound of his voice and smiled a bit at Tom. He was striding down the Armoury Corridor with his robes billowing a bit behind him. In the soft moonlight, Hermione thought he looked positively angelic, though of course she knew much better than to think that of him.

"Why have you got a bottle of firewhisky?" Hermione raised a sceptical eyebrow and flicked her eyes from Tom's hand back up to his face.

"Oh..." Tom glanced with a bored expression at the large crystal bottle in his hand. "It was a gift. From Avery's father, apparently. Strange, I know..."

"It's against Hogwarts rules for students to consume liquor on the grounds," Hermione reminded Tom, "even when one is of age."

"I know that," Tom snapped. "I have no care for the rules, Hermione, but neither have I much of an appetite for drunkenness. I will likely give this as a gift myself, when the timing seems appropriate."

Hermione frowned, knowing that Tom would use the whisky to manipulate someone with apparent generosity. She sighed lightly.

"To answer your initial question, Tom... Yes. I've finished my rounds and I'm off to bed. I'd advise you to do the same, seeing as how summer lessons begin in the morning." Hermione aimed her wand at the lock on her door and muttered, " _Recludo Cubiculum._ "

The wards on the Head Girl's room, which had been designed to only admit Hermione herself, released and the door creaked open. Hermione sighed a bit and turned back to see that Tom was scuffing his foot upon the floor and frowning up at a suit of armour in the moonlight.

"Goodnight, then, Tom," she said softly, and she started to walk through her doorway.

"Erm... seeing as it's only ten-thirty," Tom said hastily, and Hermione whirled over her shoulder to face him, "Perhaps you might like to break open this bottle of firewhisky with me. Just a nip, you know, to relax."

Hermione scowled and shook her head vehemently. "I told you, Tom, it's against the rules for -"

"And _I_ told _you_ ," Tom said with some force, "that I do not much care what is 'allowed.' I think I shall have a spot of whisky before bed. I should like it very much if you were to join me."

Tom released the wards on his own bedroom door with a flourish of his wand, and he briskly crossed the threshold into his room without another word. Hermione huffed and hesitated, glancing into her own room and thinking that perhaps she ought to simply ignore him and go to bed. But then she realised she _wanted_ to go into Tom's room, to drink whisky with him and kiss him.

To break the rules.

She frowned and cursed herself for allowing him to be her weakness. Then she stepped back into the corridor, warded up her room once more, and walked through Tom's open door. She closed the door behind her, watching as Tom pointed his wand at the candlesticks upon his mantle and whispered,

" _Incendio_."

The room was soon bathed in a warm glow, delicate as it danced shadows upon the wall. Hermione looked about, finding that the Head Boy's room was almost identical to her own. She shifted awkwardly and watched Tom Transfigure two books into crystal tumblers. He did it so effortlessly, Hermione thought with a pang of jealousy. That sort of Transfiguration was no easy task, but Tom did it as though it were an afterthought. Hermione felt her bottom lip jut out the tiniest bit as she wished she were capable of such breezy spellwork. She'd never been made to feel inferior - at least not academically - but Tom's utter talent amazed her each time she saw him work.

"Are you going to come in?" Tom asked in a bored voice as he pulled off his outer black robe and his suit jacket. He set to work loosening his tie, and he put it with the jackets upon his duvet. Hermione swallowed rather heavily and nodded, stepping into the room a few steps before pausing. She shouldn't be here, she scolded herself. It was against the rules to be in Tom's room alone after curfew. It was even more against the rules that they were about to break into a bottle of firewhisky together.

But then, Hermione realised, they'd already broken loads of rules. They'd had sex in the library and in the Gryffindor common room. Surely _that_ wasn't allowed. Tom had tortured and then killed Ladon Scamander out of misguided chivalry and jealousy. That _certainly_ was against Hogwarts rules. And Hermione was carrying out her entire school career here under an assumed identity, something she couldn't imagine would be well-received if too many people knew the truth.

Hermione thought back to 'her' time, to how many rules she'd broken with Ron and Harry. It had been a _lot_ of rules, Hermione thought. They'd gotten into loads of trouble over the years, the lot of them. They'd served detentions and had been threatened with expulsion, but they'd also done heroic deeds and had often saved lives by breaking the rules.

Hermione thought that she and Tom probably wouldn't be saving any lives by drinking firewhisky after curfew in the Head Boy's dormitory. But she suddenly found that she didn't care. Why obey the rules when they had often been foolishly designed? Why obey the rules when most of the good in her life had come from breaking them?

Resigned to her own habitual disobedience, Hermione reached for the clasp at her collarbone. She pulled off her black school robe and kicked off her shoes, hanging the robe up near the door and placing the shoes carefully upon the ground. She padded back to where Tom stood, and she sank into one of the armchairs before the empty hearth.

Tom handed her a crystal tumbler, and Hermione took it, feeling its cool weight in her hands. She stared at the glass, marveling at how beautifully Tom had Transfigured it. The glass filled with a few centimetres of amber liquid as Tom poured her a bit of firewhisky. Hermione moved the glass toward her lips, mumbling her thanks to Tom as she prepared to take a sip.

"Not so fast," Tom said sharply, putting his fingers on top of Hermione's and guiding her hands back down to her lap. She shivered at the feel of his hand on hers, raising her eyes to him questioningly. Tom smirked at her, poured himself some firewhisky, and set the bottle down upon the little table between the armchairs. He sat down in the chair opposite Hermione and said carefully, "I propose we make this into a little game."

Hermione felt a stab of unease in her stomach as she grimaced and shook her head. "I don't think that's a very good idea, Tom. I'm just going to have a small bit, anyway. Just a sip or two."

"You didn't come in here for a 'sip or two,'" Tom said knowingly, his dark eyes glittering in the dim light from the candles. Hermione felt her eyebrows crumple indignantly, and she opened her mouth to protest, but Tom said again, "I propose we play a game. I shall ask you a question. You may choose to answer it - _truthfully -_ or to take a sip of whisky. Then you do the same to me."

"Like 'truth or dare' without the dare?" Hermione cocked an eyebrow and scoffed at the suggestion. Tom did not show any recognition of the game she mentioned, but Hermione demanded, "When is the game over? How does one win?"

"It's over when we've had enough whisky," Tom answered simply. He said nothing of winning. Hermione felt a nervous quiver in her abdomen, and she pursed her lips as she wondered when she'd become so irresponsible. She finally nodded and said determinedly,

"Fine. I shall begin." She bit hard on her bottom lip until it hurt, and then she asked softly, "Why do you want to rule the world?"

Tom laughed quietly and dragged his thumb over the rim of his glass. He raised his glass to his lips as though he were about to take a sip, and Hermione's eyebrows flew up in surprise. But then Tom lowered the whisky without drinking and answered matter-of-factly,

"I want to 'rule the world,' as you say, because I believe I am the most fit to do so."

Hermione nearly choked on her laughter at that response, and Tom looked very unhappy. She stifled her chuckling and said in a pinched voice, "That's it? It's as simple as 'I'm the best'? There must be more to it than that."

"You asked your question and I answered it," Tom said firmly. "It's my turn."

Hermione watched him stare up at the candles atop the mantle for a long moment. Finally, he took a deep, steady breath, and he asked, "In your time, what had I done to make you despise me?"

Hermione felt her mouth drop open, and her breath caught in her throat. She was not entirely sure why Tom had phrased his question the way he'd done, though of course she should not have been at all surprised that he'd asked about his future. But how could Hermione tell him that his policies and views against Muggle-borns had made her feel marginalized and hunted? How could she tell him that he'd been so murderous and dangerous that people refused to say his name? How could she tell him that she'd loathed every last thing she knew about him? She feared the repercussions to the timeline if she informed him of his path, but she also feared the distance that would open between them if she said any of that.

So, instead, she simply raised her crystal tumbler to her lips and pulled the searing firewhisky down her throat. It burned and stung, and she tried not to cough as she swallowed it. She licked the whisky from her lips and said in a hoarse whisper,

"My turn."

Tom narrowed his eyes at Hermione, as though he were quite cross with her for refusing to answer his question. She shrugged helplessly and tried to think of a high-stakes question. She needed to scare him enough with her query that he was likely to drink, but not so much that he would shut down the conversation. Ideally, she thought, she'd ask him something from which she would derive a valuable answer.

"If you know that I'm a Muggle-born, then why don't you avoid me, or even publicly expose me as a time-traveler?"

Tom gave a small sigh, this one rather shaky. He chewed upon the inside of his cheek and stared down into his whisky. Finally, with great reticence, he responded, "I find myself drawn to you at a great many levels, Hermione. I am fond of your appearance, of your body. I find your determined and stubborn personality to be oddly endearing. And I admire your intellect. I simply can not help but to want you, Muggle-born or not."

Then he raised his crystal tumbler to his mouth and drained everything in the glass. Hermione gasped quietly and insisted,

"You didn't have to drink, Tom. You answered the question."

"I know the rules of my own game," Tom said quietly. He poured himself another bit of whisky and added more to Hermione's glass. As he poured, he asked with surprising gentleness, "If you could leave this time and go back to your old life, would you do it?"

Hermione thought about that for a moment. She missed Harry and Ron, and of course she pined for her parents. But her old life had been a time of conflict and fear - because of _him,_ because of Tom - and there had been a great deal of uncertainty. Now there was even more. In killing Ladon Scamander, Hermione knew that Tom had altered the timeline that would lead to her old life. If she were to return now, she could not be certain what she would even find.

So, she thought, in one regard she absolutely wanted to leave and go back to the time she'd left. She would get to see her friends again, to see her parents and her cat.

To fall back into the conflict that had ravaged the wizarding world since Voldemort had returned.

Now that she knew him - at least a little bit - could she ever fight _entirely_ with the Order of the Phoenix again? Could Hermione point her wand at Tom and kill him? And if she couldn't, would it do any good at all to be in her old life?

Hermione took a rather large gulp of whisky, grunting ungracefully against the terrible burn. Tom flicked an eyebrow up at her condescendingly, but Hermione ignored him and sputtered,

"Do you regret murdering Ladon Scamander?"

"No." Tom answered so immediately that Hermione was utterly taken aback. She'd expected some smart-aleck remark from him, or perhaps some contemplative silence and a sigh before he answered. But he'd snapped the word at her - _no_ \- with absolutely no hesitation. She felt queasy and wanted to ask a follow-up question, but then Tom continued plainly, "I saw very clearly in his head the ways he envisioned violating you. I took a great deal of pleasure in hitting him with the Cruciatus Curse, and even more in seeing him crumple to the ground like a limp rag when I killed him."

He drank deeply from his glass, and Hermione tried to speak through the rise of bile in her throat to inform him again that he wasn't required to drink after answering a question. But then she realised that he knew that full well. She was still speechless and horrified from his response when Tom asked smoothly,

"Have you ever thought of me whilst touching yourself?"

Hermione felt her eyes go wide with shock, and she stammered, "That's - that's quite offensive, Tom. You musn't ask me -"

"I may ask whatever I please, and you may either answer or drink," Tom said with his crooked smile. Hermione felt anger bubbling in her chest. If she answered him truthfully, she would sound like a desperate harlot. Of _course_ she'd put her fingers to herself with his face in her mind. How could she help it, after the encounters she'd had with him? After his distinctive aroma had lingered in her nostrils and intoxicated her beyond any firewhisky?

But if she drank, that would seem like an admission of guilt. And she was hardly anxious to admit that she'd masturbated whilst thinking of Tom Riddle. So she said, as definitively as she could manage, "No, Tom. I've never done that."

Tom chuckled, his voice rumbling forth from his chest. "Silly girl," he scolded, sipping absently at his whisky, "Don't you know I can tell perfectly well when you're lying to me? Drink."

Hermione scowled and felt her cheeks colour with humiliation and anger. She took a very small sip from her glass, feeling the liquor burn all the way to her stomach.

"More," Tom insisted, and Hermione shook her head firmly. When she did, she felt a swimming sensation in her skull from the firewhisky she'd already consumed, and she said,

"I don't want to play anymore."

* * *

Tom downed the rest of the firewhisky in his tumbler and rose from his chair. He cleared his throat against the woozy sensation in his head, and he said to Hermione, "I shall show you out, then."

"I said I did not want to play your game anymore," Hermione informed him from where she still sat. There was a strange glint in her eyes as she continued, "I did not say I wanted to leave."

Tom nearly laughed in surprise, but then he realised the implications of her words. He curled up his mouth and nodded, saying, "Stay as long as you like."

He watched Hermione blink hard a few times, swallowing heavily, and he knew she was feeling the firewhisky as much as he was. He stared at her face in the light of the candles, taking in the sharp angles of her cheekbones and jaw, the way her amber eyes rested beneath her bold eyebrows. He observed the way her unruly hair tumbled messily about her face, the way her scent of fresh rain and lilacs invaded his senses.

Tom cleared his throat once more and yanked at his tie, loosening it further so that he could pull it over his head. Then, out of some instinct screaming at him to disrobe, he moved his fingers nimbly down his front and unbuttoned his white shirt. He peeled it off and folded it over the back of the armchair, looking back to see that Hermione was wide-eyed and open-mouthed.

"Wh-why are you taking your clothes off?" she demanded, but her voice came out in a small, uncertain squeak. Tom resisted the urge to smirk and her, and he answered simply,

"It's quite late. I thought I might put on my pyjamas."

"Oh. Then I shall go," Hermione nodded and rose shakily from her chair, swaying unsteadily upon her feet as the firewhisky settled into her veins. Tom grinned and reached out to plant his hands upon her waist in an attempt to steady her. In doing so, he pulled his own tipsy form a bit off balance, and he stumbled over his own feet. Hermione apologised in a stream of almost unintelligible murmurs, and Tom silenced her by planting his lips firmly against hers. He pulled her more tightly toward him by her waist, and he pressed his mouth against her own before pulling away to whisper,

"Stay, will you?"

He tried to make his coal-black eyes look less menacing than he knew they normally did. He tried not to let his smile be sarcastic. He tried to loosen his hands upon her waist. He'd crafted his words to be a question, a request for consent, rather than an order. Hermione seemed to melt where she stood, slacking against his hands a bit as her eyelids drooped a little. She nodded and said shakily,

"All right, then."

Tom kissed her again, more insistently this time, before he ghosted two words against her lips that he very rarely said,

"Thank you."

Five minutes later he'd managed to free her from her tie, jumper, and white shirt, as well as from her skirt, knickers, and stockings. His own trousers and underwear had come off, and he watched Hermione shiver naked before him. He knew she was not cold.

"So... pyjamas, then?" Hermione reminded Tom, and he tried to ignore the insistent throbbing between his thighs as he nodded.

He Summoned a set of pyjamas from his wardrobe, realising with a bit of amusement that Hermione had nothing else to wear but had not resisted a bit in removing her school uniform.

Suddenly a very powerful sense of want came over him, as he cast his eyes up and down Hermione's nude form. He thought back to their question-and-answer game and he set his pyjamas down upon the chair. Then he coughed quietly and said, "I want you to show me."

Hermione furrowed her brows and shook her head. "Show you what?" she asked, smiling with a hint of distrust. Tom nodded once, curtly, and clarified,

"Show me the way you touch yourself when you think of me."

The firewhisky was hitting his head rather firmly now, and he tried to steady himself on his feet as he watched Hermione's cheeks go scarlet. She gasped as though scandalised and insisted,

"I told you, Tom. I've never -"

"And I told you that it was very clear you were lying," Tom replied. He could always tell a liar. The way people's skin flushed, the way their eyes made minute darts back and forth, the way their breath moved quickly and erratically in their nostrils. He didn't even need to employ Legilimency most of the time, though of course he could if he wanted to do so. Even now, Hermione looked embarrassed at his accusation, and he knew that she _had_ masturbated to the thought of him. That made him feel oddly proud, and also stoked the internal fire that was making him hard with want. "Show me," he said again. Then, seeing the indignant horror upon Hermione's face, he cleared his throat and pressed, "Please."

The crimson flush upon her cheeks spread down her neck and up to her forehead, and Tom watched her bottom lip tremble a bit as she nodded and moved wordlessly to his bed. She climbed up upon the duvet, giving him an expression that seemed as surprised by her own actions as by his request. Tom pushed her shoulder - _very_ gently - to make her lie down on her back. He felt a renewed spike of desire crash through him when she hesitantly parted her knees and snaked her right hand between her thighs. Her fingers nestled against her entrance and she began to pulse her hand there.

Tom felt more dizzy than ever, and it was only partially from the liquor. His cock ached for want of attention. He felt it twitch and jerk when he saw Hermione shut her eyes and watched her lips part. Tom's own right hand drifted of its own accord, his fingers wrapping around his shaft. He grunted a bit as he began to move his hand smoothly upon himself, struggling to keep his eyes open as he watched Hermione do the same.

"When you th-think about me -" Tom stammered, his voice coming out staccato and uncontrolled, "What do you imagine?"

His breath shook out between his nostrils as he let his hand linger at the base of his cock. He watched with hunger as Hermione's fingers quickened a bit and she shifted upon the duvet. Her left hand moved up to caress her own breast, her thumb flicking over her hardened nipple as she said to him,

"I think of you atop me on a warm, comfortable bed. Like this one. I think of you kissing my neck and pushing your hips against me. I think of your scent - of rosewood and soap, of cinnamon and iron." Her mouth trembled as she hesitated, clenching her eyes more tightly shut and seeming embarrassed. Finally, she added, "I think of how talented you are, and how envious I get of that sometimes... of how annoyingly attractive it is that you're so bloody brilliant."

Tom tried not to laugh aloud, restraining himself to a self-satisfied smirk as he pumped his hand upon himself. He heard Hermione moan a little, watched her buck her hips up against her hand, and he suddenly knew that _he_ wanted to be the one to bring her to her climax. He scrambled up atop the duvet as gracefully as he could. Hermione's eyes flew open. Tom snatched his wand from the small table beside them and pointed it at her belly, mumbling a contraceptive spell before tossing the wand aside. He looked down into Hermione's wide, questioning chestnut eyes, trying to stay steady as he moved to hover above her prone form.

"I need you," he insisted, his quiet voice crackling with a starved, greedy sort of desire. He reached to pet Hermione's hair, and she surprised him by nestling her head into his palm and letting her eyelids flutter shut. She swallowed visibly and nodded.

"I need you, too," she whispered. She did not sound terribly pleased to admit it, but she took her hand from her own sex and stroked Tom with uncertain, hesitant movements.

Tom hissed through clenched teeth and thrust his hips instinctively. His member rubbed against her lower belly, and he felt a pulsing fire inside of his chest in response. Hermione seemed to sense his impatience, and she opened her knees a bit wider and guided him toward her entrance.

Tom buried himself inside of her before he knew what he was doing. He was drunk, on firewhisky and on _her_ , and he thrashed against her with wholly unrestrained movements as he grunted and panted above her. She whimpered and cried out his name once or twice, her hands flailing about a bit until they foung his shoulders.

"Please," she begged in a frantic whisper, "Please kiss me."

He did, crushing her lips in a fervent, searing affirmation. She squealed against his mouth, and Tom bucked his hips harder than ever. A moment later she was careening from her high, and he felt an arrythmic clenching around his manhood as she gasped and moaned and thrashed a bit upon the duvet. The feeling of her walls cinching him, the sight of exquisitely parted lips, the sound of her voice... it all combined to drive Tom over the edge.

He growled ferociously and pushed so hard into Hermione that he briefly worried he might have hurt her. His seed pumped into her as his ears rang and his heart thudded inside of his chest. His skin felt as though it were on fire, and the delicious tension between his legs was soothed by his release.

A minute later he was beside her, having collapsed onto his back upon the bed. He shut his eyes, too dizzy from the firewhisky and the sex to stare at the ceiling. He cast his arm over his face and caught his breath, feeling Hermione's palm press against his chest as she curled up beside him.

He ought to make her leave, Tom thought to himself. It was ridiculous and utterly undignified to allow her to see his limp, exhausted body. It seemed even more foolish and laughable that he would allow her to cast her leg over his hips as she drew herself against him and nuzzled her head between his neck and shoulder.

But he liked it.

He liked the feel of her warm body beside his. He liked the fact that her pleasant scent was so near, filling his lungs with every breath. He liked the sensation of her rapid heartbeat against his bicep. And so he found it rather impossible to demand that she leave.

"I should leave," Hermione said suddenly, as though she'd read Tom's thoughts and had interpreted his inner turmoil. She made a jerky motion to sit up, but Tom wrenched her down again and petted her hair as she settled back against his body. He kept his eyes shut and gulped, but he turned his chin and placed a simple kiss against her sweat-slicked forehead.

"Stay, will you?" he requested, and he felt her nod against him. There was silence then, light and comfortable, and Tom drifted off to sleep before he even realised how tired he was.

For the first time in many years, his sleep was undisturbed and deep.

* * *

"My Lord, you may go and see the Lady if you wish."

The old, wizened Healer approached the chair where Voldemort sat, nervously drumming his fingers upon the table beside him. He'd resisted the temptation to swig down firewhisky as Hermione had laboured, thinking that for many reasons it would be best if he were completely clear-headed when he saw his new child.

He rose from his chair and nodded imperiously to the Healer. "Thank you. You may go, for the time being."

The Healer gave a little bow and backed out of the room. Voldemort cleared his throat a bit and strode over to the grand doors that led to Hermione's bedchamber. He flung them open and struggled to steady his breath in his chest.

Hermione was snuggled beneath a pile of warm blankets, looking pale and drawn but quite happy as she cradled the tiny form of a pink-faced child. She raised her weary eyes to Voldemort and nodded, giving him a little smile.

"Come and see her, Tom," Hermione murmured. "She is beautiful."

Voldemort swallowed, feeling an oddly thick resistance as he did. His eyes burned, in a most unfamiliar fashion, and he felt nervous for a reason he could not properly articulate. He shook off the uneasy feeling, striding over to the bed with feigned confidence. He gazed down at Hermione and noted,

"You look quite well. How are you feeling?"

"I'm fine, Tom," Hermione assured him, lowering her gaze to the child in her arms. "Would you like to hold her?"

Voldemort hesitated, wondering whether or not he ought to take the infant from Hermione. "I'm certain she'd rather you hold her," he suggested, and Hermione giggled softly. Voldemort scowled; he disliked being laughed at, even by Hermione. But then she looked back up to him and said kindly,

"You're her father. Take her, Tom."

She nudged her arms upward, urging Voldemort to take the tiny child. He did, easing his hands beneath the bundle and ensnaring the little girl securely. There was a sudden flush in his veins - a sort of desperate happiness that he had never experienced. It was odd, and almost unwanted, but rather pleasant. Voldemort looked down to see that the child had raven hair, just like his, in a sweet sort of halo about her tiny face. Her eyes were shut in peaceful slumber, but he could see that her button nose and plump rose-coloured lips were perfectly formed. She smelled clean and _new_ , in a way Voldemort would not have been able to describe. It was not altogther unpleasant to hold her.

"Georgiana Jean Gaunt," he said softly, and Hermione nodded from the bed. Voldemort flicked his dark eyes to Hermione and said as gently as he could manage, "She is rather lovely, isn't she?"

"So she is," Hermione affirmed happily.

"Rather like her mother," Voldemort mumbled, and he saw Hermione's smile widen before he looked back at Georgiana.


	5. Chapter 5

Hermione watched the area outside the maze anxiously. Harry had been gone an awfully long time, and there had been no word on him or Cedric. Suddenly, there was a flash and a bang, and two figures appeared upon the grass. One, Hermione could see, was Harry. He was sobbing and shaking visibly, clutching the glittering Triwizard Cup. Hermione felt a pang of worry the instant she saw how Harry cried and trembled. She felt positively nauseated when she saw the other figure. Cedric Diggory, rigid as a tree trunk, lay upon the ground. Harry's arm was wrapped around his unmoving shoulders, and Cedric's pale eyes stared lifelessly ahead.

There was a shriek, though Hermione couldn't tell to whom it belonged. Then there was a surge of humanity rushing toward the place where Harry and Cedric lay with the Cup. Hermione numbly followed, feeling dizzy with anxiety.

"He's back," she heard Harry croak, his voice weak but desperate. "Voldemort's back."

There was a mess of words and screams and scrambling feet then, and Hermione heard someone say quietly, "My God - Diggory! Dumbledore, he's dead!"

More screams then, and one girl somewhere to Hermione's left fainted. Hermione couldn't hear or see clearly all of a sudden; her vision was swimming with unshed tears and her ears were ringing loudly.

Voldemort was back. If Harry said it, it must be true. What did he mean? How could Voldemort have returned? What had happened to Harry and Cedric? Where had they been?

How could Voldemort be back?

Hermione gasped as her eyes sprang open. She was acutely aware of several things. First, that she'd awoken from a nightmare that was at once a vision of the future and a memory. Second, that she was covered in a cold sweat while her heart thudded and her breath panted. And third, that she was lying in Tom Riddle's bed.

She shot upright and instinctively flung herself from the bed as though it were made of molten lava. She then became very aware of a fourth observation: she was utterly naked.

Hermione dashed wordlessly away from the bed and snatched her clothing off of the ground in front of Tom's fireplace piece by piece. She pulled on her brassiere and her white shirt, her fingers shaking and fumbling as she did up the buttons. She yanked on her skirt and her knickers. She nearly jumped off the ground in surprise when she heard Tom's groggy voice say from the bed,

"You're leaving."

Hermione whirled over her shoulder, knowing full well that her hair was sticking out in every direction. She frowned at Tom's observation and snapped,

"Yes. I'm leaving."

"Why?" he demanded, giving a bored sort of yawn as though he truly didn't care whether or not she stayed. Hermione felt her cheeks flush with rage as she remembered the sight of Cedric Diggory's corpse on the grass. He had done that to Cedric.

"I want to go home," Hermione said firmly. She stooped to pull on her stockings and slid on her shoes, and she yanked her jumper over her head. She grabbed her black outer school robe and balled her fist around it as she seethed to Tom, "I don't belong here. This isn't my time. You made me come here. You said it was necessary. But I'm not interested in preserving your timeline anymore, Tom. You're a murderer and a monster. Yes. I'm leaving. Goodbye, Tom."

She moved to storm from the room, her feet clomping ungracefully upon the floorboards as she did. She'd almost reached the door when she felt a gentle tug upon her bicep. She swiveled on her heels and swung her right hand up in anger. Her hand hit Tom's cheek so hard that her fingers and palm burned afterward. She watched Tom's cheek instantly go scarlet, saw the way his dark eyes flashed from being struck.

Hermione flicked her eyes up and down his naked form and felt a boiling anger with herself. She should have never kissed him, she thought. Not that first time on the Viaduct, and not any time since. She should have never accepted lilacs from him, much less have allowed him to take her maidenhead. She had let him - the boy who would become Voldemort - put his fingers and his manhood inside of her. She had let him grunt and moan and thrust and do all other manner of terrible things as they found a twisted pleasure with one another.

Hermione abruptly felt as though she were going to vomit. She had done all those awful things with Tom Riddle - with the boy who would become Voldemort - in spite of knowing his murderous destiny. Why? Did she have no respect for his victims, for Harry, for herself? Did she not realise that he was evil and wicked and dangerous?

She'd realised full well, Hermione thought with an almost overwhelming churn of her stomach. She'd known exactly who Tom was, and who he would become. And she'd succumbed to him anyway, to his aroma and his charisma and his charm and his impressive magical abilities. She'd debased herself with him, and in doing so she may as well have spit upon the graves of Harry's parents.

Hermione yanked her bicep out of Tom's grasp and reached up to strike him again. Tom snatched her wrist out of the air and squeezed it so hard that Hermione squealed in protest. She impulsively kicked at him, striking his bare shin with the sole of her shoe so hard that his knees buckled. Tom tightened his grip on her wrist and his mouth curled into an ugly sneer.

"What, may I ask, has come over you, Hermione?" Tom demanded in a cross sort of hiss. "Last night you seemed all too eager for me to stick my cock into you; today you slap me and call me a monster. What, exactly, seems to have happened in the past eight hours?"

Hermione pulled her wrist away from Tom so hard that she stumbled backward against the door when he finally released her. "You - you killed him!" she cried, shaking her head and willing away the hot tears in her eyes. "You killed all of them! You are a monster, Tom, and I want nothing to do with you. I hate you. I hate everything about you."

She marveled for a brief instant at the expression that crossed Tom's face. He looked betrayed for a moment. Almost hurt. But then Hermione's mind screamed that he couldn't feel such things as hurt, or betrayal, or anything other than a murderous hatred.

"Legilimens."

Hermione collapsed to her knees at the feel of him invading her mind. He pushed into her consciousness with such force that she knew she'd vomited upon the ground. She shrieked in pain and protest, feeling his probing reach as he rifled through her memories and thoughts.

The sight of Tom Marvolo Riddle's diary after it had been struck through with a basilisk fang. Waking up in the hospital wing after she was roused from being Petrified.

Speaking with Harry after Cedric's death. Learning what had happened in the graveyard. Hearing Harry describe Voldemort's new body - his grey flesh and his red eyes and his sibilant words of terror.

Being slashed across the chest by Dolohov's spell in the Department of Mysteries. The sight and sound of prophecies as they crashed to the ground and shattered, one after the other. Hearing the far-off sounds of Voldemort and Dumbledore as they battled.

There was an audible 'whoosh' and a dizzying sensation as Tom pulled out of Hermione's mind. She fell onto her hands and retched again, growling with frantic rage.

"Tergeo… scourgify…" Hermione heard Tom muttering a few spells to clean the floor of her vomit. She heaved herself to her feet and stood shakily, and then she reached out to shove Tom's chest so that he backed away from her. He stared at her with an awestruck expression, as though he could scarcely believe the memories he'd witnessed. He stepped back into his room, looking oddly distracted as he reached for the emerald night robe that hung beside his bed. He pulled it around himself wordlessly, still seeming as though he were quite in shock. As he cinched the belt of the robe, he murmured to Hermione, "I have no desire whatsoever to cause you pain."

"But you did! You're going to!" Hermione used the back of her hand to swipe at her running nose and the tears that streamed down her cheeks. "You become a terrible villain, you know."

Tom cocked his head to the side and said softly, "Timelines can change, Hermione. I assure you that I take no pleasure in the sight or sensation of your agony."

She scoffed at his words, feeling thoroughly irritated by the way he was speaking - gently, almost, as though he cared about her. Nonsense.

"I'm going to see Professor Dumbledore," Hermione announced haughtily. "I'm going to get back to my own time, and I'm going to Obliviate all the memories I have of you. You will be nothing to me, nothing but the grey-skinned shadow of a man I know you will become."

"I will not be that man," Tom said firmly, shaking his head. He repeated, "Timelines can change."

But Hermione sneered through her teeth at him, "I'm going to tell Professor Dumbledore everything about you. I'll show him. And then he will destroy you before you can kill all those innocent people."

Tom's cheeks coloured with what seemed like a strange mixture of anger and confusion. "Hermione," he croaked, "I need you to stay here. You can not go to Albus Dumbledore."

"You will not charm me into aiding your wickedness, Tom," Hermione assured him. "I know what blackness your heart contains. I know how vacant your soul is. And I want nothing to do with you."

She turned and flung the door open, dashing quickly from Tom's room before he could grab her or speak another word.

* * *

The first two days of lessons proved themselves to be dull and uninspired. In Potions, the students crafted draughts they'd been making for five years. Hermione had been notably absent from supplementary lessons the first two days, and indeed seemed to have somewhat disappeared entirely into the walls of the school. Tom saw her at meals, when she appeared to chew her food in moody silence. He never encountered her entering or leaving her dormitory room, and he did not pass her on patrol.

Tom rolled his eyes when he led his gaggle of Slytherin boys into the Defence Against the Dark Arts classroom. He was not anxious to see the motley conglomeration that had assembled for the supplementary lessons, but it was obvious that Dippet had been obligated to occupy the student body over the holidays. He noticed at once that the desks had been removed from the room by Professor Merrythought. He strode to a comfortable-looking spot on the wall and leaned back against the stone nonchalantly.

"Wonder if our Head Girl is taking Defence," Tom heard Avery say to Nott. Avery chuckled and said in a hushed voice, "Did you see her at breakfast this morning? She looked like she'd been crying for hours. Someone must have made Miss Villeneuve quite sad. I reckon I could cheer her up properly, eh?"

"Avery." Tom snapped the boy's name with an acid tongue, and Avery stopped his guffawing at once. He and Nott both stared wide-eyed at Tom, and Tom saw Avery's throat bob with a nervous gulp. Tom tipped his head to the side and said mockingly, "I seem to recall instructing you to keep your hands - and your filthy words - far away from Hermione."

The others seemed confused by Tom's use of Hermione's first name, and he cursed himself silently for doing so. He watched Avery narrow his eyes and nod reluctantly, and then Tom clarified, "Miss Villeneuve is off-limits, as I've told you before."

Avery cocked an eyebrow toward Nott and asked Tom, "Is she... yours? You know, are you... is she your girlfriend?"

Tom rolled his eyes and snorted in derision. He shook his head and scoffed, "Not that my personal endeavours are any business of yours, Avery, but... no. She is not my girlfriend."

He said the last word with a great measure of mockery, and Avery and Nott appeared satisfied. They began discussing something different - quidditch and other girls, from the sounds of it. Tom wasn't paying much attention to their conversation. He was entirely distracted by the sight of Hermione entering the classroom, walking between Betty Cattermole and Maggie Prewett. She looked sad and drawn, almost ill. There were dark circles under her eyes and she was pale as chalk. Her eyelids were red and swollen as if she'd just finished crying. Avery had been right, Tom could see.

He felt a strange tightening in his chest at the sight of her disheveled hair and her melancholy expression. He would not have been able to explain why it was that he was so uncomfortable with her sadness. All he knew was that an unpleasant sense of dread had coursed through his veins when he saw her.

"Right, Tom?"

He snapped his face back to Nott, who was eyeing him expectantly. He cocked an eyebrow and shrugged at Nott, indicating that he couldn't be bothered to pay attention to whatever the boy had asked him. Nott cleared his throat with a touch of embarrassment and repeated in a low murmur,

"I said that Grindelwald would be dead before the New Year. Right?"

"Yes. Of course," Tom nodded absently. He had spent a great deal of time over the past few days discussing his plans to invade Nurmengard with his Slytherin lackies. He intended on surprising Grindelwald in an ambush and killing him in single combat. He would then use Grindelwald's death as a stepping-stone to power, brandishing his victory over the loathed Dark wizard like a tool.

"All right, all right. Conversations end now," Professor Merrythought descended from the Defence office and flapped her hands about to stifle the students' voices. The room fell silent as students shifted upon their feet and awaited further instruction. Merrythought paced up and down the centre of the classroom as she said, "Since these summer lessons are out of the ordinary, and since they were rather spontaneously announced, I confess that I do not have explicit lessons prepared for you. I intend for you all to utilise these lessons to practise and hone skills you already have. Today, we will be practising duelling - with an emphasis on safely casting nonlethal spells that will propel you to duelling victory."

Tom felt an internal laugh erupt from his chest at the ridiculous suggestion that a duel must be non-lethal. Naturally, they could not cast the Killing Curse about the room in Defence lessons. But he found it laughable and irresponsible that the Hogwarts faculty put so much emphasis on the safety of hexes and jinxes cast by students. In the real world, Tom thought, it would not come down to who was particularly skilled at wrapping his opponent's head in a bubble, or who could turn his opponent's feet into bananas. No. It would come down to a flash of green light and the ensuing silence.

"Partner up, if you please," Professor Merrythought was saying, and students began moving to stand ten paces away from one another on opposite sides of the room. Merrythought continued, "Ensure, if you will, that the traditional proprieties of duelling are maintained. That means you bow to your opponent and observe the respectful preparation periods between spells. Nothing that causes permanent damage or excessive pain is allowed. Begin, please." She turned and stepped toward Tom, and then she simpered, "Mr. Riddle, I would like you to work with Miss Villeneuve, please. I believe it would be most helpful for everyone if you two duelled with one another."

What the professor meant was that Hermione's and Tom's spell-casting abilites were too dangerous for the other students. Tom, of course, did not mind having Hermione as a duelling partner. It was better than duelling with the idiot Hufflepuff boy whose nose seemed perpetually runny, or the Ravenclaw girl who seemed to have the personality of a brick.

Hermione, for her part, seemed most displeased with Merrythought's suggestion. She only moved to stand across the classroom from Tom once spells began flying between other coupled students. She raised her wand before her and bowed perfunctorily. Tom did the same, but he gave Hermione a rather grand obeisance. He wondered what sort of spells she would cast at him. He could block anything non-lethal, of course, but he was unsure of what he was meant to cast at her. He waited for Hermione to act first so that he would have a point of reference.

"Tremulis!" Hermione exclaimed, and a white ball of light sizzled from the tip of her wand and flew across the room toward Tom. He flicked his wand up and easily deflected the hex, which had been intended to make him twitch and shake.

Physical discomfort, then, he realised, was what Hermione had decided upon. Fine. He could work within those parameters.

"Prurigo," he mumbled softly, whipping his wand in a swirl until turquoise light jetted forth. His spell hit Hermione so quickly that she had no time to shield against it, and she stood in angered silence for a brief moment before a horrified expression came over her face. Then she began scratching furiously at her face and neck in response to Tom's Intense Itching hex. Tom smirked a bit at how he'd already proved his skills to be superior to Hermione's. He did not take pleasure in seeing her uncomfortable, but he did relish the fact that he was winning.

Hermione raised her wand once she was able to stop itching for a moment. She stammered, "La-lassitudo!"

Tom shielded himself from this spell, too - one intended to cause the enemy to become overwhelmed with exhaustion. As soon as Hermione attempted to hex Tom, she focused on removing his Intense Itching spell. Tom allowed her a moment to recover before he jabbed his wand into the air and said in a bored voice, "Calcitrosus."

He regretted the hex the moment his spell hit Hermione. She actually managed to partially shield herself from the hex, and was only hit with a mild version of the spell. Even so, she buckled over at the waist as if an invisible boot had crashed into her abdomen. Tom frowned; he'd never once regretted using the Kicking Hex before. But now it sent an odd queasy feeling through him.

"Finite incantatem," he muttered, releasing Hermione from the spell. He watched as she raised angry eyes to Tom and flicked up her wand, exclaiming,

"DOLOREM VERPA!"

She cast her spell with every ounce of force she could, and the tip of her wand exploded with red light. Tom hastily attempted to shield himself, but Hermione's magic moved so instantaneously toward him that he was hit by the hex. Immediately, he felt a searing, agonising pain between his legs. His manhood felt as though it were being burned off, and he struggled not to grasp at his crotch as he hissed through the torture. He staggered for a moment and prepared to undo Hermione's Penis Pain hex, wondering where on Earth she'd learnt such a spell. Before he could release himself from her hex, he heard her cry out,

"Genu ruentis!"

Tom felt his knees buckle and collapse, and he fell into a kneeling position. He growled in anger and hastily dissolved the spells upon his body. He hauled himself to his legs, feeling properly cross with Hermione now. He huffed and flourished his wand, saying between his clenched teeth,

"Sanguis igni."

His spell ignited into an orange-and-yellow web when it hit Hermione, and she instantly shrieked as the Blood On Fire curse began coursing through her veins. Tom felt his heart thudding within his chest as he watched her writhe where she stood, knowing that he'd caused her excrutiating pain. He felt a twinge of unpleasantess at the sight of her clutching her chest and clawing at her arms. He only then realised that the room had gone still and silent as the other students and Professor Merrythought watched the duel between Hermione and Tom.

"That is quite enough!" Tom heard Merrythought say, her voice laced with horror. "Lower your wands at once!"

Tom gave a perfunctory nod and lowered his wand, ending the spell that was causing Hermione such pain. He took a small step backward, acknowledging the end of the duel. But then Hermione's voice screeched into the silence.

"STUPEFY!"

Tom reacted quickly, throwing up a shield and watching as the pale blue light from Hermione's wand shattered into a million little specks and dissolved into the air. He scowled at her, and she shot daggers back at him with her furious eyes.

"I said enough!" Professor Merrythought exclaimed. Hermione did not lower her wand, though, instead opening her mouth as though she were about to cast another spell in Tom's direction.

"Silencio," Tom whispered, and Hermione's uncast curse died upon her lips when his silencing spell hit her. She lowered her wand, her hand shaking fiercely as she did, and she eyed Tom with what could only be described as 'pure loathing.'

"Mr. Riddle! Miss Villeneuve!" Professor Merrythought cried desperately, moving to stand between them so they would pay attention to her. "Fifteen points each from Gryffindor and Slytherin. This is hardly acceptable behaviour from the Head Boy and Head Girl! Miss Villeneuve - I'm not certain what they taught you at Beauxbatons, but here at Hogwarts we observe the rules of properity during duels. That means you may not hit your opponent with a two spells in a row. And you, Mr. Riddle... the Blood On Fire curse? Truly unacceptable, my boy. Detention on Saturday for the both of you."

Tom apologised with a few muttered words he did not mean. He was busy watching the way Hermione stared at him, her chestnut eyes filled with hate and anger. His stomach coiled with a queasy uneasiness as he stared back.

* * *

Hermione stormed into the Arithmancy classroom and huffed as she sat down. She looked about to see that only two other students had bothered taking advantage of Professor Pascal's offer for summer Arithmancy lessons. They were both Ravenclaw girls who seemed to prefer to keep to themselves. That was perfectly fine with Hermione. She had no interest in speaking with anyone at the moment.

The last few days had been hell for her. She'd barely slept after her conversation with Albus Dumbledore the morning she'd awoken in Tom's bedroom. She'd insisted to Dumbledore that she wanted to return to her own time.

"Miss Granger," Dumbledore had said patiently, causing Hermione to flinch at the sound of her given name, "I'm afraid that it is dangerous and unwise for you to return to your own era. There may well have already occurred changes to the timeline you knew. Indeed, I think it is likely that something small has already happened which might have radical ramifications for the world you left behind."

Hermione thought of one alteration she'd noticed - how the death of Ladon Scamander prevented an entire person Hermione had known. She pondered Dumbledore's words and wondered what else might have already occurred to cause shifts in the events of reality. She had realised immediately that Dumbledore was right. She could never go home. This time, and this place, was the past. But it was also her future.

She was halfway through a series of predictive equations when her quill froze above her parchment. She glanced down at her work, noting how she'd amassed a few columns of keywords that would eventually be strung together into a prediction. Hermione realised instantly that she had no desire to finish her work. She did not want to know the future. She thought she had already known the future - after all, she'd lived it. But it was as Dumbledore had said. Things had already happened that would almost certainly change the real course of events that lay ahead.

And Hermione had no desire to know what the new course was to be.

She'd always loved Arithmancy. It had always been her favourite Hogwarts subject. But now she felt ill at the thought of predicting the future. Time had been a fickle and often painful variable in Hermione's life. She'd used a Time Turner to push herself to the academic and physical limit, and she'd used it to radically alter events that had already occurred. She'd been sent back in time by a Dark wizard who claimed he'd known her in another world. And she'd resigned herself to the fact that she could never go back to her own time.

Hermione was suddenly repulsed by the idea of precting the future. If I want to know what is going to happen, she thought anxiously, I shall simply have to wait and see.

Hermione Vanished her writing and crumpled up her parchment.

"Is something wrong, my dear?" asked Professor Pascal, ambling across the warm, quiet room to Hermione's desk. She glanced up to the wrinkled old man and sighed.

"Professor... I apologise, sir, but I've decided I don't want to do Arithmancy this summer. Or this autumn, probably. I don't ever want to predict the future again, sir. If you'll excuse me..."

She rose wordlessly and nodded politely before walking briskly from the classroom. She ignored the curious stares of the Ravenclaw girls she'd left behind and the shocked gasp from Professor Pascal.

She trotted down the stone steps from the Arithmancy classroom and walked resolutely through the corridors, not bothering to acknowledge anyone she passed. There were students milling about seemingly everywhere, but Hermione had no desire to socialise today. The weather was fine, but she headed toward the Armoury Corridor, determined to spend the few hours before dinner in the peace and quiet of her own room.

She stopped in her tracks when she approached the Head Girl's dormitory. There was a small envelope upon the ground in front of her bedroom door. Beside the envelope was a small bouqet of lilacs.

Hermione walked up to the doorway cautiously, feeling a strange sense of dread as she picked up the flowers. She took the envelope in her right hand and turned it over. In neat script she recognised as Tom's, she saw the words, "To: A Very Intelligent Witch. From: A Rather Penitent Wizard."

Hermione felt a flutter of unease and distrust flush through her veins as she broke the green seal binding the envelope shut. She pulled out the letter inside and began to read.

Halfway down the page, she paused, her mouth falling open in surprise as the lilacs tumbled, forgotten and released, and landed upon the stone floor.

* * *

29 June, 1952

Hermione,

You are a rational witch - you always have been - so I have no doubt that you are staring at the date atop this letter and thinking it must be a hoax. I assure you that this letter was penned in the year 1952. You know your history, Muggle and wizarding alike, so perhaps some recent events might persuade you. A few months ago, the Muggle king died, and his daughter Elizabeth has since replaced him. The Muggle Olympics are scheduled to take place next month in Helsinki. And Kennilworthy Whisp recently published the decisive tome on wizarding sport, Quidditch Through The Ages.

I happen to know that on this day you received from me a letter apologising for my recent cruelties and appealing to you for forgiveness. Since I know you received that letter... here it is. The means of transporting this letter to you are complicated and, frankly, rather Dark. Suffice it to say that I have spent over five years attempting various methods of inter-time communication, and have only recently succeeded in developing an effective technique. I sincerely hope that you are, in fact, reading this letter on 29 June of 1944.

The past seven years of my life have been incredibly busy, Hermione, mostly due to your actions and influence. I can not overstate the importance of your presence in my existence. Perhaps that sounds silly or maudlin; I do not especially care. What matters is that you know that I care deeply for you, here in my time. I have done so for quite some time, and my affection toward you strengthens by the day.

There is an infant here with me - our daughter. She is called Georgiana Jean, after your grandmother and your middle name. She is a sweet little thing, truly, though she cries at rather inconvenient hours of the night and seems to devour nearly all your time and energy. You love her with a ferocious strength. She is a beauty, with raven hair and shining eyes and an annoyingly convincing pout.

I implore you, Hermione, not to erase yourself or Georgiana from my existence. I need you both, much as it pains me to admit such a weakness. On the night of 29 June 1944, I was on the shores of the Black Lake, attempting to learn to fly. I would be very much obliged if you might visit me after dinner and put an end to our recent quarreling.

I wish for you to know, Hermione, that you have proven yourself to be a wise advisor over the past seven years. Your opinions are quite frequently thoughtful, logical, and significantly more human than those I might form on my own. I require your insights, your conversations, your physical presence - and not simply to further my own ambitions.

I shall bring this letter to a close; it is nearly sundown and I make a nightly habit of amusing Georgiana before she goes to sleep. You've assured me that such play 'wears her out' and causes her to sleep more deeply. I can not say whether or not that is the case, but I admit I do enjoy her tinkling laughter and the sight of you cradling her in the twilight.

Speak with me tonight, Hermione. I beseech you to do so, and not to abandon me based on your recollections of a future that no longer exists.

Yours,

Tom

* * *

Lord Voldemort shut the envelope into which he'd just slipped his folded letter. He carefully picked up his iron bowl containing emerald-coloured wax, which had been suspended above a candle. He poured a bit of wax upon the envelope and pressed his seal to it, blowing gently upon the parchment.

The door to his office opened with a gentle creak. Voldemort knew who stood in the doorway before he looked up; she was the only one permitted to enter without knocking. And, even for her, Voldemort preferred to grant admission with explicit permission. She had never seemed to put much stock into such things.

"She's been calling for you," he heard Hermione say, and Voldemort nodded with a bit of distraction as he pulled an odd-looking box closer toward him across his desk.

"Nearly finished," he assured Hermione. He opened the jeweled box before him. It was quite old, and a few pearls and stones were missing from its tarnished silver lid. When Voldemort opened the box, he was greeted by threadbare scarlet velvet, worn by the ages. He carefully placed the sealed envelope inside the box and shut it, placing his hands atop the lid. He closed his eyes and murmured, "Ego dominis temporis. Nunc mitto ad praeteritum epistulam."

There was a warm vibration beneath his hands, and Voldemort waited a brief moment in silence. The only sound in his office was a gentle childlike cooing from the doorway. Voldemort opened his eyes and raised the lid of the ornate box. It was empty.

He cleared his throat and stood briskly, moving around his desk and stretching out his arms toward Hermione.

"Come here, Georgie," he said softly, pulling the squirming child from Hermione's arms. "I've heard you have a new doll. Show it to me, will you?"

* * *

Tom dragged his wand in a series of arches in the air before him.

"Effugere Terram," he said quite firmly. There was a lightness within him then, a liberating absence of bodily weight. He pushed down hard upon his feet, pressing his shoes against the slick grass. He was pleasantly surprised when his body lifted nearly a metre off the ground in response. He hovered in the air, glancing down and smirking at the ground he had escaped.

If he was going to successfully invade Nurmengard, it would be useful to be able to fly. As far as Tom knew, no witch or wizard had ever successfully flown without assistance. If he could manage it, he would possess an ability no one else did. He would be powerful.

"Fugiens Sicut Avis," Tom said, drawing his wand in long strokes along his arms, over his chest, around his skull, and across his upper back. Then he concentrated upon his goal of moving through the air.

Soon he was gliding above the black waters of the lake, his feet hovering well above the gently lapping waves. He tipped his torso forward and his body replied; he was utterly weightless and was able to manipulate himself in the air quite effectively. Tom grinned like a fool, laughing aloud in triumph as he thrust his arms to his sides and soared forward.

"Very impressive," he heard a voice say, and he froze midair. He stared down to the shore of the lake, a few metres away, and saw that Hermione was standing there. She was gazing up at him with an expression of awe mingling with one of hesitation. Tom swallowed heavily and pushed himself toward her, drifting downward toward the shore and landing silently. He kept his face as stony and blank as he could.

Why was she here? How had she known he would be here? The air was warm, but heavy and thick with an impending rainstorm. The darkness of the night was quickly approaching. And, as far as Tom knew, Hermione despised him. So why was she here? To kill him?

"It's going to rain," he informed her matter-of-factly. "You shouldn't be outside."

"Then I suppose you shouldn't, either," Hermione retorted. "Though I can see you've been productive." She jerked her head toward the lake, toward the blank air where Tom had been flying just a moment earlier. He chewed upon the inside of his cheek and said,

"I would like to apologise, Miss Granger, if you'll allow me to do so."

She looked a bit surprised by that, furrowing her brow and standing in stunned silence for a moment before she quirked a nod at him. Tom took a nervous breath, wondering how to properly phrase what he wished to say to her. His mouth felt as though it were full of cotton wool as he said,

"I should not have invaded your mind the other morning - not without your permission. It was wrong of me, probably, to sort through your memories as I did. My only explanation is that I felt compelled to see why it was that you so thoroughly despised me. I had no idea, Hermione, of what I had done in your past - my future - I had no idea I'd hurt you so badly."

Hermione's face darkened for a moment, and then she said softly, "You did hurt me. Would. Will. Whatever the proper tense is, it doesn't matter. The you I knew was quite a hurtful person all around. If you weren't hurting me, then it was someone else. It was always someone. You seemed to thrive upon causing pain of every sort. You seemed to relish it. So, Tom, you must understand that my perception of you is based upon memories that are vivid and real. I lived through the terror you caused. It was real and it was - would be, will be - awful and painful. I hated you in my past, in your future. And now I find that hatred directed at myself, because I have difficulty reconciling the way I feel about you here, in this time."

Tom felt a strange twinge in his chest as she spoke, and he cleared his throat rather roughly before he shifted upon his feet and asked, "And... how do you feel now, Hermione?"

She looked downright pained as she admitted, "You are charming, and handsome, and intelligent. You are witty and gentlemanly, at least with me. I can not help but wonder if your ambition is valid, if it could be sculpted into something... not so wicked and hurtful as what I saw. You failed, more than once, due to misguided goals and actions. I can not help but wonder if different choices could be made this time, choices that gave you the power you crave and deserve without destroying so much of the world."

Tom was caught speechless then. His throat felt clogged with some unknown obstruction, and he blinked rapidly as he tried to formulate a response to her words. Finally, he managed to choke out, "You would be my ally, then?"

Hermione pursed her lips and nodded. "I can not see as I have any other choice, Tom. Not this time."

The skies opened up then, and raindrops began to plummet toward the earth. Within a moment, the drops had turned into veritable sheets of rain, and Tom watched as Hermione raised her face to the sky and smiled. She chuckled aloud as the rain soaked her, as the cool water covered her frizzy hair and her pale face.

"What's so funny?" Tom asked, trying not to snap at her. Hermione shook her head toward the heavens and shrugged.

"You couldn't have warned me about the rain, hmm?" she said vaguely, and Tom frowned in confusion. He had warned her that it was about to storm. What did she mean?

"Let's go back to the castle, then," Tom suggested. "It won't do to have the Head Boy and Head Girl missing during a rainstrom after curfew."

Hermione laughed harder than ever, and she demanded, "Since when have you cared so deeply about rules, Tom Riddle?"

She was right, he supposed. He might attempt to be diplomatic from time to time, if for no other reason than self-preservation or self-promotion. But did he care whether he offended someone or disobeyed a set of regulations? Of course he didn't.

"Let's go back, then, because it is wet and dark," he said pointedly. Hermione lowered her face to him. He could just make out the way her rain-soaked hair fell in scraggly clumps around her face, the way she grinned jauntily at him.

"Are you afraid of the dark?" she asked in a mocking voice, and Tom snorted.

"I am the Dark," he informed her, and she laughed once more as she shook her head in feigned disbelief. She strode toward him then, and he could smell lilacs upon her even through the heavy rain.

She leaned up on her toes and snaked her arms around Tom's neck. He flinched and his breath caught in his chest as a familiar swell of want took hold of his body. His hands moved instinctively to pull her by the waist until she was flush against him, and he kissed Hermione's rain-slicked forehead with trembling lips. She said again, "Perhaps you are the Dark. But I'm not afraid of you. Not anymore. I can't be. Sometimes the Light is blinding, you know. Sometimes it burns."

"There are many people in this world who ought to fear me, Hermione," Tom said in reply. He dragged his fingertips up Hermione's ribcage and felt her shiver. "You are not one of them."

* * *

August, 1958

Lord Voldemort stormed up the stone staircase that led to the Headmaster's office. He brushed at his dark robes; there was still dust upon him from the obliterated gargoyle that guarded the base of the staircase. Voldemort tightened his grip around the wand he carried - the knobby, slender wand he'd seized years earlier from Grindelwald. Only in the intervening fourteen years had he begun to realise the significance and power of the wand. Tonight, he thought, it would prove its worth.

He flung open the door at the top of the stairs and strode purposefully into the office. He jabbed the Elder Wand toward the desk where Albus Dumbledore sat and cast a nonverbal Expelliarmus. The Disarming Charm hit Dumbledore almost instantly, and the old wizard's wand hurtled through the air toward Voldemort. He snatched the wand out of the air and snapped it quickly in two, tossing it to the floor as his lip curled in disgust. He pointed his wand at Dumbledore again and noticed the way the old man seemed shocked by the sudden intrusion.

"Tom," Dumbledore said, his voice steady despite his wide-eyed expression, "I prefer to schedule meetings with visitors. I do not care to be surprised -"

"I am no visitor, Dumbledore," Voldemort sneered. He squeezed his wand more tightly than ever as he cried, "Crucio!"

Dumbledore slumped in his chair as the red web of light ensnared him. He began to twitch and jerk, his limbs limp and his eyes rolling back in his head. For a moment, he was quiet, and then a terrible sort of shriek began to work its way from his mouth. He screamed in desperation for a few minutes until Tom released the Cruciatus. The portraits behind Dumbledore all stared in mute horror at the tortured Headmaster. One portrait looked as though he were about to protest, so Tom pointed his wand at the canvas and muttered, "Incendio."

The portrait who had apparently defied Voldemort burst into flames, its paint peeling and its wooden frame going black. The other portraits promptly feigned sleep or simply disappeared out of view. Voldemort cast his eyes back to Dumbledore, who panted and glared at him as he struggled to recover from the Cruciatus. Voldemort approached the desk and said in a menacing growl,

"You knew full well what they would do to my daughter at Azkaban. More than that, Dumbledore, you suggested to the Minister that she be seized and imprisoned. You thought that by threatening my child, you would be threatening me. You thought I would cower in fear, out of paternal love and instinct. You were wrong."

Voldemort's wand hand shook with anger. The tip of the Elder Wand quivered in the air as he aimed it toward the weakened Dumbledore.

"I am stronger than ever," Voldemort declared, "and all your senseless cruelty served to do was to help me acquire more support for my cause. You are a fool, Dumbledore, and you always have been. You were a fool when it came to Grindelwald, and you have been a fool with me. Georgiana -" he struggled to keep his voice menacing even as he spoke his murdered daughter's name, "Georgiana did nothing wrong, Dumbledore. She was an innocent child. You are no better than me, you murderous old idiot. Indeed, you are worse, I think. More wicked, more evil... because you killed her for nothing. Now you will die as she did, after torture and agony. And in dying, you will strengthen me. Just like Georgiana did. Crucio!"

The curse that burst forth from the Elder Wand was so forceful that Dumbledore was thrown from his office chair. It seemed like an eternity passed in which the headmaster convulsed violently upon the floor. At one point, his pale eyes opened and stared at Voldemort with unmitigated loathing, but soon enough the eyes shut and the screams began again. Voldemort felt a surge of vindication as the Cruciatus dragged on.

In his mind, he heard Georgie singing a song about the rain outside her bedroom window. He saw her trotting into the sitting-room, dragging a doll by its arm as she climbed into her father's lap. He could feel the dark curls atop her head in his fingers; he could sense the cheer that had radiated from her little form. The happy memories were replaced by the sight of Maggie Prewett Disapparating with Georgiana in tow, by the terrible shriek Hermione had released when their daughter had been taken.

Voldemort flicked the Elder Wand away from Dumbledore's body, releasing the Cruciatus Curse. He spent the next hour casting all manner of painful and disfiguring spells at Dumbledore until he grew bored. All the while he thought of the girls - of little murdered Georgiana and of heartbroken Hermione.

After a great while, he'd managed to turn the great Albus Dumbledore into a quivering, drooling heap upon the carpet of the headmaster's office. The ancient wizard heaved himself to his knees and held out a hand toward Voldemort. He spoke through bleeding lips and cracked teeth as he croaked,

"Tom, I assure you I had nothing to do with Georgiana's death."

"Liar," hissed Voldemort, shaking his head. "Don't you know, Dumbledore, that I can always sense a liar? You are a fool, and you always have been. Look at me. Look at me!"

Dumbledore hesitated for a very long moment before he obeyed, raising his pale eyes to meet Tom's furious ones. In Dumbledore's expression, Voldemort could see a strong emotion - regret. There was guilt there, written upon Dumbledore's face, and Voldemort felt bile rise to his throat. He shook with rage as he whispered,

"Look now upon my power. You have underestimated me, you old fool. And my vengeance toward you and your kind shall be utterly merciless. Avada Kedavra!"

There was a violent flash of green light then. The Killing Curse burst so forcefully from Voldemort's wand that he was shoved backward a bit where he stood. He lowered his wand and looked at what he'd done. The great Albus Dumbledore, so renowned and respected and feared, was nothing more than a dead heap of flesh.

As Voldemort made his way silently from the castle, he realised he felt no relief in Dumbledore's death. The sense of triumph he had expected was seriously tempered by the knowledge that, even by killing Albus Dumbledore, there was nothing at all Voldemort could do to bring back his child.

* * *

August 1944

The following six weeks dragged on interminably. Supplementary summer lessons were conducted with a rather irritating lack of purpose. The days were sometimes pleasantly warm and sunny, other times rainy and chilled, but they all seemed to blend together into an endless stream of time. Hermione saw Tom with some frequency; he was Head Boy, and so they often crossed paths on patrol. He seemed unwilling to make their association, however vague, public. Hermione could see why - if he intended to garner undying support from his gang of Slytherins, he needed to establish himself as a formidable figure on his own.

But there were times, more than once, that Hermione found herself crushed up against a stone wall in a dark corridor after curfew. There was more than one occasion in which she followed Tom into his room and spent hours there with him. And there were times that she caught his eye in a lesson, watched his cheeks flush, and stifled a small grin.

Toward the end of the summer holidays, a great melancholy seemed to seat itself upon the Hogwarts student body and staff. Everyone who had spent the holidays at the school seemed to be slowly realising the implications of that. There were twelve-year-olds who would spend a total of twenty months - almost without interruption - at school, away from their families. There were staff members who had to teach two school years plus a summer with no true liberation from duty. And there was the constant bad news from the 'outside world'.

On a Saturday morning in mid-August, Hermione picked absently at a bowl of steaming porridge at breakfast. She wondered testily why the House-Elves had thought it appropriate to serve such a hot, heavy meal on a day that was shaping up to be so warm. Hermione pushed her bowl of porridge away and seized an apple from the bowl at the centre of the table instead. Beside her, Betty Cattermole and Maggie Prewett were giggling as they discussed the romantic scene at Hogwarts. Hermione could not help but roll her eyes a bit at their girlish fervour.

"And did you know that Ector Longbottom is with Augusta Brown? Honestly, I think she's something of a mean cow, but..."

"Oh, Betty!" Maggie scolded firmly, chewing her scone, "Don't be cruel. Augusta and Ector are perfect for one another. Let's just hope that any child of theirs inherits Augusta's ears... and Ector's nose."

She chuckled along with Betty. Hermione raised her eyes and flicked them down the Gryffindor table to where Augusta Brown, a rising sixth-year, was chatting animatedly with her friends. She suddenly felt a click of realisation in her head. Neville Longbottom's grandmother was called Augusta Longbottom, she knew. If that girl married Ector Longbottom, then...

Hermione's stomach churned as she thought of Frank and Alice Longbottom and how they'd been tortured into oblivion on behalf of Voldemort. On behalf of Tom. But then she thought that perhaps she might prevent such an atrocity, if she could manage to steer Tom's future carefully. Perhaps, she thought, Frank and Alice Longbottom wouldn't wind up in St. Mungo's. Perhaps Neville wouldn't wind up raised by Augusta. Perhaps -

"Hermione?"

She dropped her apple as she startled back to the Great Hall. Tom Riddle had walked over to the Gryffindor table and stood behind the empty bench across from Hermione. She carefully chewed the bite of apple in her mouth and swallowed thickly, taking a small sip of pumpkin juice before she said,

"Morning, Tom."

He curled up the corner of his mouth at her and held out a small book. "I thought you might find this an interesting read," he informed her. She took the small, leather-bound book from his hand and read the gold-embossed title on the cover.

"The Magical Mysteries of Time," she nodded, and her head buzzed a bit as she sighed, "Thank you. I have not read this one before."

"It's a new publication," Tom said casually. With a sly flick of an eyebrow, he continued, "I assume you have read everything currently available. I have bookmarked a section I think you might find of particular note."

Hermione nodded again, staring up at him and trying to ignore the way she found him so handsome. Tom cocked his head to the side and gazed out the windows at the sunshine.

"The weather is fine today," he noted. "I thought I might take a long walk about the grounds after breakfast, seeing as it is the weekend. Will you join me?"

Beside Hermione, there was soft giggling from Betty and Maggie. Tom smirked at Hermione as he waited for a reply to his invitation. She finally sighed and said,

"I would enjoy that. Thank you."

Tom bowed his head and excused himself, stepping away from the table and leaving a tense happiness behind him. When he was gone, Hermione opened the book to the page he'd bookmarked with an emerald ribbon. A few dried lilacs slid out from the book - Tom had clearly pressed them between the pages. Hermione gulped and read a few paragraphs on examples in history of timelines that had been altered by time travel. Then she hastily shoved the dried lilacs back into the book and shut it.

"Oh, Betty. Catch me; I'm swooning!" Maggie Prewett jested. Hermione felt her cheeks flush with embarrassment at Tom's public flirtation. Before she could comment, though, a loud screech rang through the Great Hall.

Hermione watched as a large brown owl soared through an open window and circled the Hall once or twice before landing a few metres away on the Gryffindor table. The owl hopped and marched down the table, stopping when it had reached the group of seventh-years.

"It's for you, Betty," Maggie Prewett said, pulling the cord upon the owl's ankle to release the envelope bearing Betty's name. Hermione looked to Betty and saw that the girl's face had gone white.

"That's my parents' owl," Betty noted. She opened the envelope with trembling fingers and pulled out the letter inside. She read in silence for a long, pregnant moment. Hermione looked to Maggie Prewett, and the girls exchanged nervous looks as they waited for Betty to finish reading.

Finally, Betty set the letter down upon the table and pulled her knuckles to her lips. She stared down at the table for a while, and then a few silent tears trickled from her eyes and tumbled down her pretty cheeks. Maggie wrapped an arm around Betty's shoulders, and Hermione asked softly,

"What's happened, Betty?"

"M-my brother," Betty said, "Edwin. He's a Squib, you know, and he joined the Muggle army so that he might feel useful. He was in Florence for the liberation. He was found dead in a burned-out building. But it's strange, you know... it says that he wasn't burned at all, and that his body bore no signs of damage whatsoever."

"The Killing Curse," Maggie gasped.

Hermione felt a sinking feeling in her stomach. Of course Grindelwald's forces would attack a Squib if they'd known he was on the Continent. For months, Grindelwald had taken advantage of the chaos caused by the Muggle war. Recently, there had been many reports of wizarding victims who appeared to have died in the Muggle conflict.

"Oh, Betty," Hermione moaned softly, "I'm so sorry."

"But of course you understand precisely what it feels like," Betty sobbed quietly, clutching Hermione's hand in hers. Her red-rimmed eyes stared at Hermione pleadingly as she clarified, "You lost your family on the Continent, too!"

Hermione felt a surge of guilt and uneasiness roil through her as she pondered what a lie she was living. There was no one, no one except Tom, who could even begin to understand who she truly was. The more she thought about it, the more Hermione wondered to what extent her past mattered anymore. It almost certainly was different than the future that would come to pass now that she had resigned herself to staying in this time. Perhaps, Hermione thought absently, she ought to Obliviate her memories from the first years of her life, so that they didn't cloud her judgment. Perhaps -

"I think that's a wonderful idea, Betty," Maggie Prewett was saying. Hermione jolted back to the room, broken from a daydream for the second time that morning. Betty and Maggie were rising from the table, with Maggie supporting Betty's shaking frame. Maggie continued, "I'm sure Professor Dippet will arrange at once for you to go home and see them. There are still two weeks until the autumn term begins; surely they'd enjoy having you at home for even that short bit of time."

"I'm very sorry, Betty," Hermione said agian, her voice sounding tired all of a sudden. Betty nodded gratefully down at Hermione, and then Maggie led the girl away, up to the Staff Table.

Hermione packed up her rucksack wordlessly and rose from the bench, striding over toward the Slytherins. She suddenly found herself quite grateful for Tom's invitation to stroll the grounds. She felt, just then, that she needed something of a distraction.

* * *

April 1953

Hermione laughed aloud as Georgiana dashed across the sitting-room toward her. The child had only found her legs a few months previously, but already she was flitting about with surprising speed and confidence. Just now, Georgiana was carrying her familiar - a Puffskein called Pelzig - as she trotted laps through the room. Georgie tumbled and the Puffskein went flying from her hands, rolling like a ball across the rug and coming to rest at Hermione's feet. Georgiana quickly rose to her feet, unscathed by her fall. She held her arms out and cried, "Peh-zig!"

Hermione made a choked sound, somewhere between pity and amusement. She bent to pick up the Puffskein, who gazed contentedly up at her with wide eyes. Hermione brushed the Puffskein's fur off and held it out to Georgiana.

"You must be careful with him!" she commanded the toddler, and Georgiana nodded in agreement. But then she snatched the Puffskein roughly from Hermione's hands and giggled frantically as she dashed off again. Hermione shook her head and murmured,

"Poor Pelzig." She was suddenly quite happy that Georgiana and the Puffskein had taken to one another so quickly; she was loathe to imagine the injuries a cat or other creature would sustain from Georgiana's roughhousing.

The door to the sitting-room opened then, and Hermione glanced up to see Abraxas Malfoy in the threshold. He bowed a bit and held out a small book.

"My Lady," he said, flicking his eyes down and quirking up an amused smirk when Georgiana ran in front of him, "This is the first edition of the book you requested - the new work by Chroniculus Punnet on historical witches?"

"Very good. I've been anxiously awaiting its publication. Thank you, Abraxas."

Hermione rose from her chair and strode over to the doorway. Georgiana dropped her Puffskein and reached her hands up to Hermione desperately.

"Up, Mama!" she exclaimed, and Hermione smiled as she picked the child up and took the book from Abraxas Malfoy.

"The Dark Lord requests both you and Lady Georgiana join him for dinner this evening," Abraxas noted, and Hermione pinched her lips as she nodded gratefully. Tom had been distant for weeks, staying up until the early morning in meetings about plans to infiltrate the Ministry of Magic. She ought to be glad, she thought, that Tom wished for her presence, and for Georgiana's.

"Have you acquired any useful information, Abraxas?" Hermione asked pointedly then. Abraxas' cheeks coloured and his expression darkened. He shook his head and replied,

"I regret, My Lady, that even under the influence of Veritaserum, the foolish witch had little of value to give."

Hermione huffed impatiently. Maggie Prewett, once a dear friend of Hermione's, had been in the dungeon for weeks after she and a few other Aurors had attempted to assassinate Tom. The only information they'd gleaned from Maggie had been that the Ministry feared Tom's ambition and ascent as a direct threat to their authority.

"I think I shall speak with her myself," Hermione said through gritted teeth. She flicked her eyes to Georgiana, perched upon her hip, and said, "Georgie, let's go find your father. You can wait with him whilst Mummy speaks to an old friend."

* * *

August 1944

Tom watched with half-hearted curiosity as Betty Cattermole was led away from the Gryffindor table by Maggie Prewett. He heard Orion Black say,

"I heard from my father that Betty's brother was killed in Italy. He was a Squib, I suppose, and he'd been there with the Muggle military. Some underling or another of Grindelwald's found out, and they killed him."

"Well," Avery said thoughtfully as he chewed upon a scone, "You know, it is doing a service, to get rid of Squibs. That's where Mudbloods come from."

"No, Avery," Orion Black shot back. "Mudbloods steal their Magic from real witches and wizards."

The two boys bickered for a long moment, and Tom ignored them and allowed them to argue. He watched with rapt attention as Betty Cattermole approached Headmaster Dippet and handed him the letter she'd received. She appeared to be speaking at length with Dippet and Dumbledore, and then she nodded at something Dumbledore said. Maggie Prewett wrapped her arm about Betty's shoulder, and the two girls left the Great Hall with countless curious eyes watching them go.

In Tom's peripheral vision, he saw the figure of Hermione Granger - Villeneuve, he corrected himself mentally - approaching the Slytherin table. He sat up straighter and cleared his throat as she nervously paused a metre away.

"Whenever you're ready for that walk about the grounds, Tom," she said rather awkwardly. She had never spoken with any of Tom's 'friends,' he realised. If he intended to pursue her with any degree of seriousness (and he did) then he would need to tread carefully. It was important that he and he alone be recognised among the group as the leader. But it was also important that his associates pay proper respect toward Hermione, since she would be at Tom's side if he had his way.

"Avery, Black... make room for Miss Villeneuve," Tom said sharply. The two boys looked a bit bewildered, but they slid away from one another and created a large gap directly across from Tom. Hermione chewed upon her bottom lip for a moment, mumbled some quiet thanks, and sat down.

"Miss Villeneuve, I believe you have seen most of my friends in some of our lessons. Allow me to introduce Messrs. Avery, Black, Nott, Rowle, Malfoy, and Mulciber." He nodded to each boy in turn. "My friends, I'm certain you all know of Miss Hermione Villeneuve."

"Good morning, gentlemen," Hermione said carefully. She folded her hands upon the table and stared pointedly at Tom, as though she were wondering why he was embarrassing her by forcing her through the introductions. "The weather is certainly fine this morning," she noted somewhat sharply. "Ideal weather, I think, to stroll the grounds."

"And so we shall," Tom agreed. He gestured to his half-eaten bowl of porridge. "Just as soon as I finish my breakfast."

He ate the rest of his food with deliberate pacing, and he listened silently as Orion Black and Abraxas Malfoy made small talk with Hermione. They asked her whether she found Hogwarts to her liking, whether the weather was wont to be so fine during summer in France. She answered each question politely and stammered a compliment to Abraxas Malfoy about his reputation as a Quidditch player. Tom's eyes flicked up and he watched Malfoy swell with pride as he said brashly,

"I should be honoured, Miss Villeneuve, if you might come and observe the scrimmage between Slytherin and Gryffindor later this evening. Of course, I understand if you feel compelled to cheer for your own House."

Hermione smiled and looked as though she were about to answer, but Tom interrupted,

"Hermione doesn't care for Quidditch, Malfoy."

He disliked the idea of Hermione going anywhere under the explicit invitation of Abraxas Malfoy, particularly when the invitation had been extended so flirtatiously. But Hermione scowled at Tom and said to Malfoy,

"I actually have developed something of an interest in the game as of late. I shall be there - cheering for Gryffindor, of course."

"Of course," Malfoy repeated warmly, and Tom felt an ugly coil of envy in his abdomen.

"I'm through eating," he pronounced imperiously. "Let us go for our walk, eh?"

He rose and strode briskly round the table, holding out his hand to Hermione. She hesitated for a brief moment and then took it. The other boys at the table rose as she did, standing out of respect for both Hermione and Tom until they disappeared from the Great Hall.

"Thank you for the book, Tom," Hermione said once they had emerged into the bright sunshine. The yard in front of the clock tower was still empty, as most students were either still eating or had settled outdoors in the cloisters and inner courtyards. Hermione pulled her hand from Tom's as she patted her rucksack and said, "I'm very interested in the subject of time, as you know."

Tom wondered whether she'd seen the lilacs he'd pressed in the book. He'd put them in there weeks previously and had placed the book beneath a stack of others to weigh it down. The flowers had dried to a pale purple crisp. It had not been an accident that, in the process of gifting Hermione a book on time, he'd given her preserved flowers instead of fresh ones.

He wondered, as well, what Hermione might think of the plans he had. He needed to know; he needed to ascertain whether she was truly going to be an ally. He paused his steps in the middle of the empty yard and turned to Hermione.

"I'm going to Nurmengard," he said smoothly, and he watched Hermione's eyes widen and flash for a moment. Then she collected herself and said in a strange voice,

"I can't say I'm surprised. When?"

Tom was somewhat taken aback by her matter-of-fact tone, by her lack of vehement opposition to his pronouncement. He blinked hard as he said, "Winter, at the latest. I intend to ambush Grindelwald and kill him, to use his death as a stepping-stone to my own throne."

Hermione looked a bit queasy for a brief instant, but then a surprisingly stony sense of resolution came over her features. She raised her chestnut eyes to Tom, and her fresh aroma washed over him like a crashing wave. "Good," she said plainly.

"Good?" Tom repeated with a touch of disbelief. He raised his eyebrows as Hermione nodded firmly.

"I do not believe there is enough space in the world for the both of you at once," she reasoned, "and I'd rather you than him. Besides, he ordered the murder of Betty Cattermole's brother. And of my parents."

Tom laughed a bit and shook his head. "I thought your parents were killed by Muggles," he reminded her, watching her cheeks blanch and then flush. "By the Nazi forces."

"Oh, yes," Hermione nodded quickly. "That's right. Thank you."

"If you intend on living a lie, Hermione, you will need to get better at lying." Tom laced his fingers through Hermione's again and squeezed gently, pulling her from the clock tower yard and emerging onto the open grounds. As they made their way toward the Black Lake, Tom asked pensively, "What makes you think that it would be in any way better to have me about than Grindelwald? Do you not believe me capable of deeds far more terrible than those Grindelwald has carried out?"

"Of course I do," Hermione said softly. She sniffed a bit and admitted, "I think you're capable of almost anything."

Tom felt a swell of pride and a strange tingling that made its way from his chest out to his fingertips. Hermione paused as they neared the shore of the lake. She stared up at Tom, her eyes glittering with an emotion he could not properly read.

"But I do not think you will be so wicked as him," she insisted. "Powerful, yes. Perhaps utterly unstoppable. But I refuse to believe that the Darkness within you extends to the marrow of your bones. I intend on extracting every bit of goodness there is within you, and helping you use it to bolster your potential."

Tom quirked up a crooked smile, amused by her idealism and optimism. "Oh, you do, do you?" he asked with a faintly mocking tone. "And how, precisely, do you intend to do that?"

Hermione shrugged, feigning a bored expression. She bent to pick up a small flat stone, and she rather expertly skipped it upon the lake's surface. "You've got your plans, Tom," she acknowledged, "and I've got mine."

* * *

September 1958

Lord Voldemort sealed the envelope in his hands with a messy blob of wax. He didn't wait for the wax to dry before he pried open the lid of his jeweled box and plopped the envelope inside.

He'd written a letter to himself, to his younger self, explaining that Georgiana had been murdered and that he'd killed Albus Dumbledore. He could only hope that he would manage to save Georgie the second time around.

Voldemort shut the lid of the box and pressed his hands against the pearls and stones. He prepared to say the incantation to send the letter back in time, but his voice caught in his chest. His mind whirled with memories, strong and insistent.

'Father, will I get to attend Hogwarts someday?' Georgiana was curled up in an armchair in Voldemort's office. Upon her small lap was a heavy copy of Bathilda Bagshot's book. The tome had been Hermione's favourite for years since its publication, and it was worn from frequent reading.

'Yes, Georgie,' Voldemort confirmed, turning his attention back to the parchment upon which he'd been writing. 'I can't imagine you wouldn't be accepted.'

He smirked a bit at his own jape. Naturally, the daughter of the infamous Lord Voldemort would be extended an invitation to study at Hogwarts. Unless, of course, Albus Dumbledore had any say in the matter.

'Do you suppose I shall be a Gryffindor like Mummy, or a Slytherin like you?' Georgiana asked pensively. Voldemort set down his quill and cocked his head to the side.

'You'll wind up wherever you're meant to be, Georgie. And someday you shall be a great witch.'

'Like Mummy is,' Georgie nodded, turning the page in her book.

'Yes,' Voldemort nodded, licking his bottom lip and returning to his work. 'You shall be great. Just like your mother.'

No matter what he did, he knew, he would lose Georgiana... it had been prophesied, after all, over ten years previously. In the years since, Voldemort begun to understand the implications of the prophesy. He could still hear the wispy voice of Cassandra Vablatsky as she droned out her prediction.

'The Dark Lord's ascent hinges upon the fall of his beloved... she shall enter his world unexpected and insistent... her departure shall burn a hole within him, and shall stoke the flames of his fury... the beloved shall come, and she shall go, and she shall leave a mark far Darker than any which has come before... her existence shall be snuffed out as a candle, but she shall tread the deepest of footprints. To time she is servant; her life is and was and ever will be brief.'

When the prophesy had been made, several years before Georgiana's birth, he had assumed it was about Hermione. He had spent a great deal of time frantically searching for a way to avoid Hermione's demise without destroying himself in the process. Then, with Georgiana's arrival, he began to rethink the prophesy. He had tried to discern which 'beloved' was referenced by the prediction, but he had found himself unable to tie the prophecy specifically to either Georgiana or Hermione. With Georgie's murder, the meaning of the cryptic words had become clear.

Hermione, for her part, knew nothing of the prophecy and never had. Voldemort intended to keep it that way. It would not do for a mother to be told that her daughter's death was inevitable, that she had to die.

Before he could second-guess himself, Voldemort wrenched open the lid of the jeweled box and snatched out the letter he had written to his younger self. He stared at it for a very brief moment. Then he pointed his wand at it and muttered, "Evanesco."

The envelope curled and shrank and then abruptly Vanished into non-being. Voldemort stared at the blank space upon his desk where the letter had just been. He nodded curtly to himself and set down his wand.

* * *

31 August, 1944

Headmaster Dippet allowed the students a respite for the remaining two weeks of summer holidays, with no supplementary lessons nor any real obligations. Gobstones and scrimmage Quidditch prevailed, along with illicit snogging. For Tom, the majority of his time was spent plotting his assault on Nurmengard during the day and spending time with Hermione after rounds were completed at night. Their time together largely extended only to conversation and kissing, as she seemed hesitant to regularly take things further than that. Tom did not mind; he was so preoccupied with thoughts of defeating Grindelwald that he could only think so much of sex.

One day, Headmaster Dippet rounded up the Head Boy and Head Girl and reminded them that the Hogwarts Express would be bringing the other students into Hogsmeade the following day. He handed each of them a small satchel with a bit of coinage and said,

"You are to stay in Room 11 in the Leaky Cauldron, Mr. Riddle, and you in Room 14, Miss Villeneuve. Be at King's Cross at nine thirty, if you please; the train shall leave Platform 9 ¾ at eleven o'clock sharp. You will depart my office via Floo Powder and arrive in the Leaky Cauldron. Your duties upon the Hogwarts Express are to inform Prefects of their responsibilities for the school year and to ensure the safety of the younger students. Have you any questions?"

Tom raised his eyebrows and smiled a bit at Hermione, then at Headmaster Dippet. "No, Sir," he said with a measure of self-satisfaction. "No questions."

An hour later, he and Hermione stood in the Headmaster's office, each clutching a fistful of Floo Powder whilst the other students were contentedly eating dinner in the Great Hall. Headmaster Dippet stood quietly behind them, having bid them farewell already.

"Ready?" Hermione said rather nervously.

"After you," Tom said graciously, gesturing with his free hand into the hearth. "I insist."

Hermione frowned and stepped up to the fireplace. She seemed to be nervous the Floo might transport her through time instead of space, but she tossed in the powder. She waited for the flames to turn green and cried out clearly, "DIAGON ALLEY!"

She disappeared into a conflagration of emerald flames. In a flash, the fire dissolved into nothing, and then there was a calm, yellow crackling in the hearth. Tom cleared his throat and stepped up to the fireplace. Floo powder trickled out from between his fingers. He tossed in the fistful and yelled out, "DIAGON ALLEY!"

Once more the flames roared up, cooled, and turned green. Tom stepped into them and felt a whoosh as he disappeared from the Headmaster's office. He felt as though he were being pinched and sucked, as though he were whirling through outer space. Then, very suddenly, he found himself walking smoothly out of an enormous fireplace. The green flames around him flared and quickly vanished.

Tom brushed off his robes and looked to his right, seeing that Hermione was doing the same. In her hand she clutched the small satchel she'd been given by Headmaster Dippet, along with a rather cleverly Expanded bag, filled with toiletries and a change of clothing. An ancient-looking witch came hobbling across the dusty floor of the Leaky Cauldron and held out her wizened hand to Hermione. She flashed a rotten-toothed smile to Hermione and Tom, and Tom tried not to recoil with disgust. He saw Hermione wince and smile awkwardly.

"Good day," Hermione said stiffly. "We are the Head Boy and Head Girl of Hogwarts School... we have been sent by Headmaster Dippet to meet the other students at the Hogwarts Express tomorrow. We're meant to stay here for the night. We have money, of course."

"Oh, but you won't be needing it!" exclaimed the old witch kindly. Tom narrowed his eyes in confusion, unaccustomed to random kindness. The woman's white hair stuck out in wiry frizz about her wrinkled face, and her eyes were so pale Tom wondered if she were blind. Her puckered lips curled into a contented-looking smile, and she declared, "I was once Head Girl, you know. In the year eighteen hundred and sixty!"

"Oh, my goodness!" Hermione gasped, drawing her fingers to her lips in awe. "I should be honoured to speak with you about that some time... do you remember the Muggle Queen Victoria when she was young?"

Tom rolled his eyes and pulled on Hermione's shoulder. "We haven't time for that now, Hermione," he insisted. "We have much to prepare before before we meet the others tomorrow."

Besides, he wanted to ask, what the blazes do you care about a Muggle queen?

"Madam," Tom said, turning to the ancient witch, who looked rather disappointed, "I appreciate your generosity, but we have been instructed by Headmaster Dippet to pay for our lodgings. We are booked, I believe, into Rooms 11 and 14. If the rooms are prepared, we shall sup and make our way up for the night. Here is our payment."

He plunked a few coins down upon the table before him. The old witch's expression darkened a bit at Tom's unfriendliness, but he didn't much care. The witch nodded, took the coins, and shuffled slowly away. Hermione wrenched her arm out of Tom's grasp and huffed,

"You were quite rude to her, Tom."

"There's no need to chat with an old woman about a dead Muggle monarch." Tom rolled his eyes again.

"It's something I am interested in." Hermione jutted out her chin and crossed her arms over her chest. Tom felt a bit of heat rise in his chest, angry at the way Hermione was confronting him. But he just cleared his throat, licked his lips, and sat down at the table. He beckoned the barmaid over with a little flick of his fingers, and he watched as Hermione crossly sat opposite him.

"What'll it be, then?" the young, busty barmaid asked in a crude voice. "We've got beef stew or pumpkin pasties. Bread fresh this mornin'. Butterbeer or firewhisky if you two are of age… tea or chocolates? Anything you like, really."

"Hermione?" Tom asked, deferring politely to the lady at the table. The barmaid shot Hermione a rather jealous glare, sizing her up with envious eyes. Hermione did not look the least bit self-conscious; she pinched her lips and said in a strong voice,

"I'll take a pumpkin pasty, if you please, and a butterbeer. And I shall pay for it myself."

"All right, then," said the barmaid, shrugging. She turned to Tom. "And for you?" She grinned playfully. Tom flashed her back a rather crooked smile and shifted in his chair, being deliberately flirtatious.

"What do you suggest?" he asked, folding his hands upon the table and cocking his head to the side. The barmaid's cheeks flushed and she giggled a bit, rather ungracefully. She sounded like a horse when she laughed, Tom thought, but he smiled at her anyway.

"The stew's quite good," she said, grinning and baring her uneven, brown teeth. Tom bowed his head reverently.

"The stew, then, please. And a whisky, if you'll be so kind."

"Right away." The barmaid turned round on her heels and dashed off, leaving Hermione and Tom alone at the table. Hermione narrowed her eyes at Tom and glared at him for a moment. Then she cleared her throat and opened her Expanded bag. She rifled around in it for a moment and pulled out a book - a copy of The Many Magical Uses of Water.

Tom ground his teeth crossly as Hermione opened the cover of the dull book and pretended to read it. Finally, he snatched the book from Hermione's hands and slammed it down upon the table. He pointed his wand at the book and Vanished it into nonbeing. Hermione gasped and scowled indignantly at Tom, opening her mouth to protest. He silenced her by saying,

"Hermione, you often argue with me for the sake of arguing, I think."

She shut her mouth, having spent a solid moment looking like a fish, and she furrowed her brows. She looked as though she wanted to formulate a response, but then she just swallowed heavily and stared at him in silence. "I spent the first eighteen years of my life hating you, Tom," she reminded him. "I often feel as though I'm meant to fight with you. Even if I don't have a very good reason to do so."

"I wish that you would not deliberately goad me," Tom informed her. "It is dangerous to do so. You are the only who instills feelings of happiness in me, you know. You would be wise to take advantage of that fact."

"Oh, I would, would I?" Hermione teased, drumming her fingers upon the table and smirking. Tom felt his cheeks flush. He said through clenched teeth,

"Do not mock me, Hermione."

She stilled her hand and her face went serious. "I'm sorry. I am not certain how else I ought to treat you," she admitted. "I am quite fond of you, you know. But I feel as though I should not be. It feels wrong, to be fond of you. And yet, it feels wonderful. And so, I have no idea how to speak to you. How to touch you. How to label you in my life."

She looked rather sad then, and she lowered her eyes. Tom licked his lips, feeling a surge of nervousness gurgle up into his chest. "Perhaps," he said, hearing his voice crack a bit, "Perhaps someday you might be able to label me with a bit more certainty. Perhaps someday there might be quite a bit more formality between us… something no one could question…"

He felt a terrible heat in his cheeks, felt properly nauseated. The room was spinning. It was awful. Hermione looked up at him and there was shock in her beautiful chestnut eyes. Tom gulped, feeling as though he ought not to have ever suggested, however obliquely, that he might propose marriage to her someday. Her eyes were red-rimmed all of a sudden and he could see her pulse going rapid and strong beneath her ear.

"Here are the keys to your rooms. Eleven and fourteen." The barmaid plopped down two heavy skeleton keys with brass labels upon them. Tom saw the keys out of his peripheral vision, but he did not take his eyes off of Hermione. She looked as though she were going to cry.

"Thank you," Hermione whispered to the barmaid. Out of the corner of his eye, Tom saw the young, busty barmaid flicking her face confusedly between Tom and Hermione.

"Erm… I shall be back soon with your food and drinks, then," she said, but Tom held up his hand.

"We shall not be requiring them," he said, shaking his head. The barmaid stammered for a moment in confusion, but Tom cast a nonverbal, wandless Confundo.

The barmaid quivered and mumbled something about cancelling the order and walked away briskly.

"Let's go upstairs now," Tom heard himself whisper to Hermione, and he saw her nod her consent. Five minutes later they were staggering through the doors of Room 11.

* * *

He tasted like a man, Hermione noticed. Not like a boy. He felt like a man, too, as he pressed her down upon the bed and peeled off her clothes one piece at a time. He felt domineering and strong and willful as he shucked his own clothing and hovered above her and leaned down to kiss her neck. She became fiercely wet between her legs and squirmed upon the scratchy yellow duvet, trying in vain to satisfy the need developing at her entrance. She reached with her fingers to touch herself but had her hand batted away by his.

"I will do it," he huffed insistently, and Hermione felt a stronger rush of heat than ever. She reached between his legs and wrapped her fingers around his throbbing length, trying to guide him toward her. But then, all of a sudden, she was being turned around and planted upon her hands and knees.

"Oof!" she cried in surprise as she was roughly guided around to kneel upon the duvet. Then she moaned desperately at the feel of his hand as he touched her clit, the pads of his fingers fiddlings with her in little circles. She tossed her head back and bucked her hips and arched her back. She heard Tom's breath behind her, steady and deep at first, then growing shallow and uneven and rickety the more she thrust against his fingers. She grew more wet by the second, and it felt better and better the longer he touched her. Then, all of a sudden, she couldn't move any more. The only movement that happened was the clenching of her walls around his fingers, the rhythmic contractions of her womanhood as he drove his fingertips into her.

Hermione moaned Tom's name, over and over, not caring that she was being loud or that she sounded wanton. It felt good, and she couldn't help herself. Tom's hand moved from her clit to her belly, and he murmured a few wandless contraceptive spells. Hermione didn't have time to be impressed by his lack of need for a wand before he drove his manhood into her. She yelped and collapsed onto her elbows, shocked by the size of him as he bore into her from behind.

"Ohhhh… Hermione, it's good," Tom said quietly. He stilled his hips against hers, and Hermione concentrated on the feel of fullness, on being filled by his thick, long, throbbing cock. It nearly made her tumble off the cliff again, just to think entirely about him like that. She moaned into the pillow, clutching the material, and squirmed her hips against his. Tom gripped her waist tightly and sighed before he began pumping himself against her, very slowly at first. He increased his pace, one thrust at a time, until he was moving steadily. Each push was accompanied by a small noise - a little grunt, or a groan, or a soft "Hermione."

Then, soon enough, he accelerated into a rapid pace, and Hermione held onto the pillow for her dear life. She buried her face into the feathers, for she was crying out frantically as Tom clutched her waist and properly thrashed her. It seemed to go on eternally, and though it felt good - very good - Hermione started to feel sore and tired. At last, she felt Tom's hands grip her waist so tightly it almost hurt, and he buried himself to the hilt and jolted unevenly a few times. His voice stuttered loudly once or twice, and then he pulled out of her body and collapsed beside her.

Hermione felt his warm seed run out of her body and ooze down her thigh, and she marveled at how very messy sex was, how incredibly exhausting it could be. She felt as though she could fall straight to sleep, and she wondered if people were always this tired after making love.

Making love. Was that what this was? Making love? Or was it just sex? Was it just two people with a strange attraction, two people who had smelled one another in a cauldron of Amortentia, thrashing about upon a mattress?

Hermione stared at the fatigued Tom beside her, his forearm cast over his eyes, his toned chest heaving. She was filled with physical attraction toward him, but also something else. She was drawn to his often-obnoxious charisma, to his dangerous ambition. She was drawn to his intelligence, to his impressive abilities. She liked to speak with him about a great number of subjects, about wizarding history and magical theory and hobbies. She liked it when he gave her lilacs. She liked a great many things about him, not just his eyes and his smell and the way he tasted when he kissed her.

Though those things were wonderful, too, she thought.

Hermione fell asleep upon Tom's bare chest, thinking back to how he'd abstractly suggested marriage down in the dining room. Her heart thudded at the thought of that. She clutched a bit more tightly at his shoulders as she replayed his words in her mind.

No one slept in Room 14 that night.

* * *

The Hogwarts Express left at precisely eleven o'clock. For the first hour and a half, Hermione and Tom explained to the Prefects what their duties would entail for the upcoming term, including regulations for docking points and what new rules were to be instituted. Tom was most pleased to note that every last one of the Slytherin prefects were loyal to him. He thought he would be able to use this fact to his advantage in gathering ever more followers. Furthermore, it seemed that all the Gryffindor prefects were rather fond of Hermione; this, Tom thought, was also advantageous. If Hermione were popular with the Gryffindor prefects, and she was publicly displayed as his 'girlfriend,' then the whole of Gryffindor House could be converted into his followers, as well. The only roadblocks were Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff, but Tom figured with enough effort, he could infiltrate the ranks of their Prefects and convince those students that he was worth following.

Once he and Hermione had done their duty meeting with the lower Prefects, Tom took Hermione's hand gently and said, "Perhaps we ought to circulate the other compartments and find the first-years. Greet them, you know."

"That's a fine idea, Tom." Hermione flashed him a small grin. She retracted her hand from his and stood, walking briskly from the Prefects' compartment. Tom rose, and the Slytherin Prefects did the same out of respect. As Tom followed Hermione down the train corridor, he murmured,

"You do not wish to hold my hand in public." It was a statement, not a question. She turned round and frowned at him.

"It does not seem proper."

Tom sighed and ground his teeth a bit. "It does not help my cause, Hermione, for you to publicly reject me."

She deepened her frown. "I'm not in the business of helping your 'cause,' Tom."

He smirked at her and nodded. "I think you are, my dear."

She blanched and then turned scarlet. She cleared her throat and turned round again, taking a few steps before turning to her left and opening a compartment door. She plastered an artificial smile upon her face and said cheerily, "Hello! Are you all first-years?"

They greeted several compartments, speaking with the new Hogwarts students with charm and wit, trying to make them feet at ease as they soothed fears and placated anxieties. For Tom, it was an opportunity to glean personalities and lasso the youngest of Hogwarts' potential subjects. In the last compartment, Hermione slid open the door and said,

"Hello! Are you two first-years?"

"Yes!" said one girl. "I'm Bess Macmillan, and this is Penny Travers. How do you do?"

"How do you do," Hermione nodded, shaking the girls' hands in reply. "I'm Hermione Villeneuve, the Head Girl. This is Tom Riddle, the Head Boy -"

"Mr. Riddle," said the girl called Penny Travers. She stood quickly, straightened her school skirt, and nodded emphatically. "My father and brother told me to send their regards. Bradley and Michael Travers, Sir."

Hermione and the other first-year girl stared wide-eyed at Tom. He tried not to look smug as he nodded to all three of the girls in the compartment, his eyes lingering upon Hermione. He finally turned back to the servile girl, the one who had flown to her feet.

"Miss Travers," he acknowledged with a small bow of his head, "Please send my greetings to your father and your brother. I hope they are well."

"They are, Sir."

"I hope you are sorted into Slytherin, Miss Travers. Good day to you." Tom felt his mouth curl into quite a crooked grin, feeling Hermione's eyes boring curiously into his face. Penny Travers lowered her gaze and nodded frantically again.

"Good day, Sir."

* * *

August, 1958

Lord Voldemort watched as Travers, Mulciber, Nott, and Malfoy elegantly directed their wands so that Georgiana's casket lowered into the ground. It was a lovely casket, crafted from walnut with birch inlays. The handles were brass. Georgiana was being put to rest on a craggy cliff overlooking the grey sea. She had always very much liked the sea, particularly on a windy day when she could hold out her arms and shriek and let her wind whip about her face.

But she had no business going into the ground.

Voldemort stood solemnly, tearlessly, whilst Hermione clutched his chest and sobbed as any mother would do. Betty Cattermole had spoken a few words - only a few, until she'd broken down into tears herself - and then Malfoy had said a few phrases in tribute. No one seemed to be able to pull much together. It was far too tragic, it seemed, to bury a child, and there didn't seem to be much to say. Eventually, before the casket was lowered into the ground, Voldemort had handed Hermione off to Betty Cattermole, and he had tipped his chin up and spoken. The assembled group (a small crowd of invited guests) had listened in tearful, respectful silence.

"Today we bury my daughter, Georgiana," Voldemort had said. "The day that my wife birthed Georgie, I beheld the two most beautiful witches on Earth. For the next seven years, my life was filled with joy previously completely unknown to me. Georgie was life, she was happiness. When she stumbled, she would rise and laugh and run all the faster. When she smiled, the room about her fizzled with magic so strong that I often worried she would set fires. Sometimes she did. I did not mind."

Those assembled to bury Georgiana smiled sadly as Voldemort spoke. He shifted upon his feet and gripped his wand tightly. He licked his lips and continued,

"Georgiana was murdered in an attempt to weaken me. But that attempt has utterly failed. I am stronger than ever in my resolve to avenge my child. I promise you, Georgie, that I shall never forget your laughter, nor the way you ran faster than ever when you stumbled. Nor shall I forget those who took you from me. Goodbye, Georgie."

Voldemort pressed the tip of his wand to the Dark Mark upon his left forearm, and those assembled with the Mark felt it burn. There was a low hiss in the crowd as the pain rippled through the group. Voldemort reached for Hermione and wrapped his arm around her, pulling her near him. He nodded once, curtly, to Travers, Mulciber, Nott, and Malfoy. The men lowered Georgiana's casket slowly into the ground and then began covering it with loose topsoil.

As they did, the crowd slowly dissipated. Voldemort began to wonder about the prophecy that he'd heard so many years ago.

'The Dark Lord's ascent hinges upon the fall of his beloved... she shall enter his world unexpected and insistent... her departure shall burn a hole within him, and shall stoke the flames of his fury... the beloved shall come, and she shall go, and she shall leave a mark far Darker than any which has come before... her existence shall be snuffed out as a candle, but she shall tread the deepest of footprints. To time she is servant; her life is and was and ever will be brief.'

He'd thought for years that the prophecy had been about Hermione. Now he thought it must have been about Georgiana. Perhaps, he thought, it could have been about either of them. Or neither one. Or perhaps it did not matter which one it was. Perhaps, he thought, he could go back in time and make the prophecy about Hermione instead of Georgiana.

But as he stared at Hermione's tear-streaked face, he wondered whether or not that was something he wished to do. Would he be any less broken-hearted if he'd lost Hermione instead of Georgiana? What if he lost Hermione before he had Georgiana at all, and he wound up losing them both? That was not a chance he was willing to take.

It was better, he thought, not to play with time if he could help it. Not when the timeline he was living had given him Hermione and hadn't taken her away.

Voldemort stared at the loose dirt covering Georgiana's grave. Sometimes, he thought, there was no simple choice. No easy choice. No right choice.

A soft rain began to fall then, and Voldemort wordlessly cast a waterproofing spell upon Georgiana's grave to protect it from disintegrating before the dirt could set. He pulled Hermione away, walking down the hill toward the rocky beach.

"Goodbye, Georgie," he whispered again.


	6. Chapter 6

_September, 1944_

The first Potions lesson of the autumn term meant that the seventh-year students had to descend from the pleasant weather into the dank dungeons. Hermione stepped down the slick stones with a measure of regret, peering over her shoulder as the last flash of sunlight vanished around the swirling staircase.

"Have you heard?" Betty Cattermole was saying beside Hermione, speaking both to her and to Maggie Prewett. "Newt Scamander's taking his case to the Wizengamot. He's bringing suit against Headmaster Dippet and the Hogwarts Board of Governors. Mr Scamander contests that Hogwarts is liable in the death of Ladon."

Hermione felt a quiver of unease shoot through her chest, remembering the way that, in her own time, Hogwarts was threatened by similar matters. "But," she began, "Ladon's body was never found. It's unfortunate what seems to have happened to Ladon, but Headmaster Dippet did everything he could to find Ladon. And certainly the Board of Governors had nothing to do with it!"

But Maggie Prewett shook her head firmly. "Hogwarts' rules are far too lax," she insisted. "Students' safety is at risk on a daily basis. Allowing young students to wander off into the Forbidden Forest, for example -"

"Well, that's why it's forbidden!" interjected Hermione. Maggie rolled her eyes and sighed,

"You know as well as I do, Hermione, that if a student wanted to go into the forest at night, he or she is perfectly able to do so. There are all sorts of creatures out there, and in the Black Lake, as well. And who knows what lurks in the Castle itself? After Myrtle died, it's impossible to know what truths this school truly holds. It's a dangerous place. The Ministry, Dippet, Dumbledore, the Wizengamot… they'll all tell you that Hogwarts is a safe haven, but I think that might be a lie. And I think Newt Scamander is quite right in demanding justice. Ladon Scamander vanished without a trace, scarcely any time after Myrtle was killed by a monster. This place is not safe anymore."

Hermione pinched her lips. She knew who had been responsible for both deaths - Tom Riddle - but she said nothing. She didn't want to admit it to herself, much less to Maggie Prewett or Betty Cattermole. Something horrible had altered Hermione's scruples, she realised. Something had shifted inside of her that had made her far less apt to object to Tom's behaviour, or to agree with Maggie's cautious words.

The girls approached the Potions classroom and stepped inside to see that Professor Slughorn was at the front of the classroom, directing his wand in a few loops so that neat writing appeared upon the chalkboard.

' _Sinefame Water_ ,' read the board, ' _What are the advantages, the disadvantages, and the side effects? The required ingredients? From where did this potion originate?'_

Hermione furrowed her brow. Sinefame Water was an ancient potion, she knew, but one that was rarely made in her time owing to its potential for abuse. The Slughorn Hermione had known in 'her era' would never have taught Sinefame Water, even to seventh-year students. Hermione shrugged a bit and put her rucksack down at a desk. Betty and Maggie sat at the desk behind her, leaving the spot beside Hermione open. Hermione took her Potions book out of her rucksack and opened it, flipping through the pages and searching through the index for the section on Sinefame Water.

She flicked her eyes beside her when Druella Rosier sat down at the empty half of the desk and began unpacking her rucksack. Hermione raised her eyebrows in surprise and cleared her throat quietly. Druella was a seventh-year Slytherin. In her own time, Hermione would have been utterly unaccustomed to the notion of a Slytherin sitting down beside her without obvious malicious intent.

"It's far too sunny to be burying our noses in Potions work, don't you think?" Druella asked offhandedly, and Hermione's eyebrows shot up further.

"Erm… yes, it is," she answered cautiously. She turned her head toward the back of the classroom when the door opened and a pack of Slytherin males waltzed in with Tom Riddle at the head of the group. Hermione felt her chest pound a bit at the sight of him gliding confidently through the dark room, his hair arranged just so and his face neatly shaved. She'd seen his hair and cheeks just that morning, when they'd been mussed in pre-dawn drowsiness.

She gulped at the memory of his warm, naked form in her bed. She shivered at the thought of how her sheets had smelled of rosewood, leather, soap, and iron hours after he'd left. And her stomach lurched pleasantly as she replayed the sight of his crooked smirk as he'd snuck out her door and whispered goodbye.

"Pardon me, Miss Rosier."

Hermione jolted as she realised that Tom had stepped up beside Hermione's desk and was looming over poor Druella Rosier, who had already begun to unpack her rucksack.

"Good morning, Mr. Riddle." Druella stared up at him, wide-eyed and seemingly star-struck. Behind Tom stood Abraxas Malfoy and a few other Slytherin boys, scowling protectively. Hermione sighed and rolled her eyes; there was no need for such showmanship. It was only Potions.

"I was wondering if it might be possible for me to work beside Miss Villeneuve today," Tom said in a light, polite voice. Then, quite abruptly, he snapped his fingers at a figure behind him and sneered in a quiet, tight voice, "Cygnus, assist Miss Rosier to that desk over there, will you?"

Tom jutted his chin toward an empty desk. Black-haired Cygnus Black stumbled forward and smiled awkwardly at Druella Rosier, who grinned like a fool and let Cygnus pack up her rucksack for her and carry it to the empty desk. She actually _curtsied_ to Tom, much to Hermione's abject horror. It wasn't much, just a slight little obeisance, but it was enough to seem subservient and obedient, and Hermione curled up her lip in disgust. Once Druella's half of the desk was clear, Tom looked satisfied and put his own leather bag down. He sat down and flashed Hermione a content, crooked smile.

"You could have sat with your cronies, you know," Hermione frowned.

"But I wanted to sit with you," Tom said in a quiet, sly voice. Hermione sighed and rolled her eyes, knowing better than to argue with him.

"Newt Scamander is bringing suit before the Wizengamot," Hermione muttered quietly, lowering her eyes to her Potions text again and pretending to read it. Tom pursed his lips and gazed up to the front of the classroom, to Slughorn's chalkboard.

"I find myself utterly unconcerned," Tom replied. Hermione opened her mouth to speak, but then Slughorn turned round and said in a booming voice,

" _Sinefame Water!'_

The classroom went silent at once, all conversations dying as the professor clapped his hands together and gave a jolly grin. The girls in the classroom all seemed intrigued by the potion; many of them had at least heard of it.

"Who might be able to tell me what the purpose is of this particular potion?"

Hermione's hand shot up on instinct. Beside her, Tom rolled his eyes mockingly. Slughorn pointed his hand to her and nodded emphatically. "Yes, Miss Villeneuve?"

Hermione, unperturbed by Tom's disapproval, cleared her throat. "Sinefame Water was invented by the Ancient Roman wizards. It is a potion which produces an anorexic effect - that is, the drinker feels no hunger whatsoever. The duration of anorexic effect is dependent upon how much potion is consumed. This might be a positive effect in some cases - for example, in an overweight person, this effect may assist in suppressing an overactive appetite and might help with weight loss. Alternatively, this may be helpful in an instance where food is not readily available, but one wishes to keep his or her wits about. However, the potion does not protect against the negative effects of a lack of food. A drop in blood sugar, organ and tissue damage, paranoia, and even starvation may occur if one doses too much Sinefame Water. And, naturally, there is a massive potential for long-term abuse, wherein one might take a bit daily to maintain an artificially low body weight, with adverse mental or physical effects. For this reason, Sinefame Water is strictly controlled by the Ministry of Magic."

An audible groan circulated about the classroom at Hermione's extremely comprehensive answer to Slughorn's rather uncomplicated question. But Professor Slughorn seemed quite pleased with Hermione's response, and he beamed happily and clapped his hands excitedly.

"Quite right, my dear!" he exclaimed. "Indeed, you have answered every question I posed upon the chalkboard. Today, ladies and gentlemen, we shall be brewing small amounts of Sinefame Water for St. Mungo's. The hospital utilises the potion for witches and wizards in need of appetite suppression. In some cases, the Sinefame Water is used to treat obesity or compulsions. In other cases, it is used as an antidote to hunger-inducing or compulsive eating curses and potions. Finally, the Sinefame Water is given, one drop per day, to help those in magically-induced comas and those who have been Petrified, to lower their nutritional needs whilst they await Awakening."

Hermione felt a jolt of sickness at those words. She herself had been Petrified during her second year - by a Basilisk originally released by Tom himself. She swallowed the terrible lump in her throat, looking over to him and knowing that Harry had seen the same face she saw now, down in the Chamber of Secrets. Harry had seen Tom's young face and had stabbed his diary with the fang of the same basilisk that had Petrified her.

Only, none of that had happened yet. And, if Hermione had her way, it would never happen. She took a shaking breath and turned her face back to Slughorn.

"Turn, if you will, to page eighty-seven in your textbooks, and you shall find instructions for the Sinefame Water. It shall take approximately one hour to properly brew; notify me when you believe you have it completed and I shall mark your work. Begin!"

There was a low murmur in the classroom as students opened their books and assessed what ingredients and tools they needed to brew the potion. Hermione made a short list of ingredients and was about to go to the storeroom when Tom said from beside her,

"I shall get two of everything."

Hermione looked up at him, a bit confused by his chivalry. She gave him a pleasantly surprised smile and nodded, setting down her scrap of parchment with the list of ingredients as he walked briskly off to the storeroom. She shoved away the thoughts of basilisk fangs and diaries and focused instead on the assignment.

She arranged a mortar and pestle upon her desk, as well as her scales and her silver knife. She did the same for Tom with his tools, noticing with a bit of astonishment how all of his implements were worn and of poor quality. But then, she thought, she should hardly be shocked that his school supplies were all second-hand. Tom Riddle had been raised in a Muggle orphanage, after all. Even with his wealthy Muggle father, he had very little wizarding money to his name. She wondered how he'd afforded to buy anything at all. She supposed that perhaps he'd been afforded a small stipend as part of the scholarship he'd been given to attend Hogwarts.

As she was laying out Tom's tarnished knife and his dented, dull scales, he returned with their ingredients. He looked completely embarrassed when he saw Hermione studying his belongings, his sharp cheekbones flushing scarlet and his hands shaking a bit as he set down his tray filled with vials, bottles, and a curled animal horn. Tom brushed his hands together and said awkwardly,

"I intend to purchase finer things, you know, when I leave school. I will have far more money then."

Hermione nearly laughed aloud. She shook her head at the ridiculousness of Tom's pride. Of _course_ he would be terribly wealthy, she knew. He would be Voldemort. But that didn't matter to her, not one iota. She'd grown up in a middle-class Muggle household, but Ron Weasley had been poor as a goat and she hadn't cared. Draco Malfoy had been fabulously wealthy and she hadn't cared about that, either.

"Have you forgotten, Tom," she reminded him quietly, "That I haven't even got a vault in Gringotts? Not _now_ , if you know what I mean? I've got _nothing_. No one. All my supplies are borrowed from the school. I live in abject poverty, Tom, and it causes me very little stress."

He pinched his lips and walked around to the same side of the desk where she stood. He began passing her ingredients one at a time. "How do you mean to survive once you leave school, then?" he asked her.

Hermione thought back to what he'd said in Diagon Alley - about something permanent and indisputable between the two of them. She tried to speak but found herself unable to for a moment, her head swimming. Her hand froze, clutching a bottle of Syrup of Hellbore, and she cleared her throat a bit too loudly. Finally, she said in a too-cheery voice, "Perhaps I shall simply be a lady of the night in Knockturn Alley, meeting a fellow here and there earning my keep, hmm? Ha-ha!"

She moved to set down the Syrup of Hellbore, but her wrist was seized rather roughly. Hermione gasped and whirled toward Tom, yanking her wrist so hard from his grasp that the bottle flew from her hand and soared toward the ground, where it shattered. Without missing a beat, Tom aimed his yew wand at the broken bottle and the spilled Syrup and Vanished the mess. His dark eyes flashed like embers at Hermione and his jaw jutted forward as he said quietly,

"You will do no such thing."

Hermione scoffed and turned back to the desk, rolling her eyes. She snatched Tom's bottle of Syrup of Hellbore off of his desk, figuring he could fetch a replacement for himself since he'd made her spill hers. "Of course I have no intention of becoming a _whore_ , Tom," she tutted. "Thank you ever so much for your confidence in my ability to support myself through legitimate means. I shall likely work for the Ministry, or for a shop in Diagon Alley, or in Hogsmeade. Perhaps I shall further my education and return to teach at Hogwarts. Perhaps I shall go teach at Beauxbatons, or go work in the Muggle world. Perhaps I shall develop new Potions, or write wizarding literature. Perhaps -"

"Perhaps you shall be with _me_ ," Tom said, so quietly that Hermione thought for a moment that she'd heard him incorrectly. She turned her head toward him, watching him for a long, quiet moment. He sniffed as he measured out some Standard Potioning Water into his cauldron, and then he set to work grinding up a bicorn horn. He dropped a moonstone into his cauldron and his solution cast an eerie white glow upon his face. He said nothing all the while, and Hermione just stood there watching him dumbly. Behind them, Maggie Prewett and Betty Cattermole were chatting endlessly about the fifth-year girl who had gotten drunk on firewhisky and vomited in the corridor outside Ravenclaw Tower. Tom passed over a jug of Standard Potioning Water to Hermione and said matter-of-factly, "Six-hundred-fifty millilitres, it says."

Hermione numbly took the bottle and muttered her thanks, measuring out the water into her cauldron. She ground the bicorn horn in and stirred without thinking, plunking in a moonstone and looking at her instructions.

 _Chopped lizard leg, introduced slowly whilst stirring anti-clockwise_ , the book read. Hermione searched her desk for the lizard leg, and frowned when she didn't see it. Then, all of a sudden, a small bit of parchment was slid across the desk toward her, with a pre-chopped lizard leg upon it. Hermione furrowed her brow and glanced over to see Tom setting down his tarnished silver knife and staring into his cauldron. His face was completely blank, stony as a marble statue. He began sprinkling in the bits of his own lizard leg into his potion whilst he stirred to the left. Hermione did the same and thanked him again with a mumble.

As she stirred and watched the ingredients meld together, she could hear the almost shockingly gentle way he'd spoken of what would happen to them after they left Hogwarts. Hermione would have thought that such talk was nothing more than childish romantic aspirations, perhaps - after all, what teenaged couple did not believe they would be together forever? It was all manner of ridiculousness to contemplate permanency between them just after Hogwarts… wasn't it?

But then, she'd received a letter from Tom, years in their future, declaring that she had borne him a daughter and that they were wed. And so it was not at all out of the realm of possibility that she was to be with him. But to hear _him_ speak of such things, here and now, felt oddly pleasant, sending a stirring of happiness straight through her core.

She reached for the rasplings of saltpetre and leveled off the tiny wooden spoon before dropping the powder into her cauldron. Her mixture fizzled and sputtered. She repeated the process three times, and then she whisked the potion before allowing it to sit for the requisite fourteen minutes. Hermione sat down in her chair and began timing her mixture. Tom was already doing the same. She sighed lightly and turned to him, dragging her top teeth over her bottom lip. She folded her hands in her lap and said delicately,

"When you say that perhaps I 'shall be with you,' do you mean -"

"I mean that I would be your husband, Hermione," Tom stared at his cauldron and raised his dark, elegant eyebrows. He sat up quite tall in his chair, straightening his tie and sharpening his school robes around his form. Hermione felt her eyes go wide, felt her stomach heave with shock and her breath catch in her throat. Her mouth fell open and she knew she looked like a fish.

When Tom next spoke, he trained his black eyes upon his gurgling potion and used a quiet, intense voice. "I intend to provide for myself, and for you if you would allow me to do so. I haven't a ring at the moment; I haven't the means to procure a proper one for you. I am not proud of that fact. Neither do I have anywhere to call home after I leave this place. But I have plans, Hermione… plans that will make me wealthy and feared and powerful."

He turned his head toward her then, but his onyx gaze maintained its intensity. Hermione felt a crushing weight upon her chest, as though a heavy stone were keeping her from breathing. She blinked rapidly and nodded as if to affirm what Tom were saying, and he continued in a voice that was little more than a tense whisper,

"I shall be the greatest wizard the world has ever known, Hermione. And I would have you with me for all of it. I woke up this morning with you beside me. I should very much like for that to happen every morning for all eternity."

Hermione felt a strange cringe when he said that - _for all eternity_ \- what, exactly, did that mean, when time was such a fluid and fickle mistress? But, at the crux of it all, she knew what Tom intended to say. He wanted them to be together, to be a couple, to be paired and joined and partnered and…

Married?

"I do not need a ring," Hermione heard her voice say, sounding hollow and distant to her own ears. _What did she mean?_ Her own voice screamed the question at herself in her mind. Did she 'not need a ring' because she had no intention of marrying Tom, or because she would marry him with or without a token? She flicked her eyes to the Gaunt family ring upon Tom's finger, ugly and won by killing, and she hoped that Tom didn't intend on proposing to her with _that_.

She watched as half of Tom's mouth curled up, though his eyes stayed somewhere else. He nodded knowingly and shut his eyes for a moment, and then he stood and bent over his cauldron to check his potion. He sat back down and sighed, staring at Hermione for a long moment before he said gently,

"Perhaps you do not need a ring. But I shall get you one just the same. Stir your potion, Hermione. You put in one too many scoops of Saltpetre."

* * *

 _August ,1958_

"Cissy! Bring it _back_! Bring it back _now_!"

Druella Black huffed in frustration as her eldest daughter, Bellatrix, shrieked like a banshee, tearing through the sitting-room. Seven-year-old Bellatrix was in pursuit of her youngest sister Narcissa, who was only three and had stolen Bellatrix's bewitched silver mirror. Narcissa giggled as she dashed through the sitting-room, waving the mirror above her head in a taunting fashion.

"You'll _never_ get it back, Bella! Finders keepers!"

"Bellatrix and Narcissa, the both of you return to your bedchambers at _once_!" Druella flew to her feet and scowled at her daughters, yanking her wand from her robes and holding it up ominously. The bewitched mirror tumbled from Narcissa's hands and landed with a _thump_ upon the ancient carpet, and even the perpetually surly Bellatrix froze in her tracks and went silent.

"What's happened, Mother?" asked Bellatrix, swaying a bit where she stood as she steadied herself from her running. She reached for the back of Narcissa's collar and yanked her near. Narcissa squealed in protest, her blonde curls bobbing. Druella stared at Bellatrix for a long moment, realising the girl was practically the same age as the one she'd just been reading about.

"Bella, go and get your father," she said in a cracked whisper.

"Why?" Bellatrix blurted.

"Now!" Druella barked, and Bellatrix startled.

"Come on, Cissy," she grumbled, dragging her protesting younger sister with her as she left the sitting-room. Druella picked up the letter she'd received by owl and read it again, bringing her fingertips to her lips and shaking her head in disbelief.

 _Mr and Madam Black,_

 _I regret to inform you that Georgiana, daughter of the Dark Lord, was murdered on Tuesday last at Azkaban Prison. She was seven years of age._

 _The Dark Lord and his Lady request privacy and respect during this period of bereavement and will be publicly addressing the matter in due time. In the meantime, please direct all inquiries, condolences, and letters directly to me._

 _Yours sincerely,_

 _Abraxas Malfoy_

Cygnus came striding quickly into the sitting-room, with Bellatrix trotting behind him and little Narcissa toddling after them. Druella held out the letter with a shaking hand and licked her lips nervously.

"It's happened, husband," she said sadly. "They've killed the child."

Cygnus snatched the letter roughly from Druella's hand and read it over a few times. Then he crumpled it in his fist and tossed it onto the ground, swearing under his breath and pinching his eyes shut. Bellatrix picked up the wad of paper and unfurled it, reading the letter carefully. Druella let her do it, thinking perhaps it was best if she knew the truth. Bellatrix had met Georgiana, after all; the girls had been playmates when they'd been younger.

One day, Druella remembered, the Dark Lord's wife ( _Hermione,_ as Druella would always remember her) decided that Bellatrix had done something wrong with a Puffskein, and politely suggested that it was time to end the play-date. Bellatrix had not been invited back to play with Georgiana after that. Druella had tried not to take offence and had decided that the Dark Lord and his wife were simply too busy to trifle with such matters.

In any case, none of that mattered now. The child was dead.

"They killed Georgie?" Bellatrix said with a mixture of awe and horror. Druella nodded mutely. Cygnus took the letter gingerly from Bellatrix's hand and folded it before tucking it into his pocket. He said to Druella,

"Dumbledore shall pay hell for this."

Druella nodded, resisting the urge to let out a cold laugh. "They all shall," she agreed.

"However the Aurors and the fools on the Wizengamot feel about the Dark Lord," Cygnus seethed, "they've no right to go about murdering a child. Not his child, least of any."

Druella flicked her eyes between her eldest daughter and her youngest, and she thought of Andromeda, who was reading books in another room. "Not any child," she said quietly.

Cygnus began pacing back and forth before the hearth, empty in the heat of August. "Now is the time to rally behind him," Cygnus was saying. "We must contact the Lestranges. The Bulstrodes. The Rowles and the Abbotts. Long-time friends of your family and of mine. We must raise funds and gathering-spaces; we need allies at the _Prophet_ and in every shop in Diagon Alley."

"Don't you suppose the Dark Lord is already working on all of that?" hissed Druella, thinking that her husband had suddenly become rather maniacal.

"Of _course_ I do!" Cygnus insisted, whirling back to face her. His pale eyes flashed and he bared his teeth. He steadied himself and continued more calmly, "But that's just, Druella. You've met him; you've known him nearly as long as I have. The fools in the Ministry are willing to murder his daughter in order to perpetuate their idiotic 'government.' We need to supplant them - with _him_. Naturally, I think the Dark Lord is doing everything he can to accomplish that. I'm simply trying to think of what _I_ can do, as a soldier for him, to do my part. I suggest you do the same."

Druella nodded silently, wrapping her fingers tightly around her wand and twirling it anxiously. Before her, Bellatrix had been watching the entire conversation with rapt attention. She swept her wild black curls from her face and widened her heavy-lidded eyes, declaring,

"I shall do my part, too, Mother! I shall serve the Dark Lord, too! Just tell me what I must do."

Druella rolled her eyes a bit and smirked at Bellatrix, amused by the young girl's eagerness. "Go and find Andromeda," she instructed Bellatrix, "and tell her it's nearly time for dinner. For now, Bella, that's what you can do."

Bellatrix huffed and clenched her fists at her sides, mumbling protests about being sent on meaningless errands to fetch family members, and she slammed the sitting-room door behind her on her way out of the room.

* * *

 _September, 1944_

Tuesday the nineteenth dawned bright and sunny, but the weather deteriorated quickly into a rainstorm. The clouds formed shortly after sunrise, as Tom was waking in the Head Boy's dormitory, and by the time he was cinching up his tie, rain was pattering against his window-panes. He frowned, thinking that the least the weather could do was be pleasant on this of all days.

He'd invited Hermione to stay with him the previous night, as he had done on numerous previous occasions, but she had declined. She'd muttered something awkwardly, something about 'female troubles,' and Tom had balked at inquiring further. Spending the night in one another's rooms was quite against the rules and was baiting for disciplinary action, but he didn't care. However, if Hermione herself had any reason to want to sleep alone, then Tom was happy to grant her space to do so.

Until, of course, she was his wife… a change in status that he hoped would come to pass when they left Hogwarts forever.

Tom had contemplated proposing to her today. In fact, he'd contemplated purchasing her a proper ring instead of the gift he'd procured for her. But he thought perhaps he ought to wait. He himself would not be turning eighteen years of age until the New Year, after all. They could wait. He could wait. There was no hurry.

He repeated this several times to himself as he pulled on his jacket and buttoned it, frowning at the way his fingers trembled. He scoffed and pulled on his outer black robe, glancing in the mirror and straightening the material. He flicked at the little curl of hair that fell over his forehead, ensuring that his appearance was utterly polished for her… no. It was _for his admiring followers_ , Tom corrected himself. Hermione would care for him either way, wouldn't she?

Tom had politely requested that each of his 'friends' give him a Galleon three weeks previously. Well, that wasn't entirely correct. He had informed each of them that he was in need of a Galleon from each of them. It wasn't as though they would miss the money. They all came from wealthy, old, established families. After all, he reminded himself, several of the boys had bet one another _ten_ Galleons about wooing Hermione when she'd first arrived. Why would they miss _one_ Galleon?

They wouldn't. So he had them each give him one, and once he'd collected about eleven Galleons in total, he sent via owl for a very specific item from well-known jewellery-maker Edelsten Gull. Tom had sent along a few drawings and instructions as to what he wanted, along with a satchel of coins, and two weeks later a package had come back.

It had come in a dark brown box with embossed gold writing, bearing the signature and hallmark of Edelsten Gull's work. Tom had opened the box with shaking hands and looked inside, all of his usual confidence quite absent, and he'd shut the box again without any assurance that he'd made the right decision with his gift.

What did one give as a birthday gift when the parameters of a relationship were so undefined? What did one give when feelings, if they existed, had been so poorly articulated? When the future had been so nebulously discussed but so fiercely pined after?

What was Tom Riddle meant to give as a birthday gift to Hermione Granger?

He sat at his small desk and pulled out a spare bit of parchment, dipping his quill into a pot of ink and hovering the nib of the quill over the parchment as he pursed his lips thoughtfully.

 _Hermione, Happy You-Won't-Be-Born-For-Thirty-Five-More-Years-Day. Yours, Tom._

Tom smirked, stared at the parchment for a long moment, then chuckled aloud before pointing his wand at the paper and Vanishing it into nonbeing. He pulled out a new piece of parchment and dipped his quill afresh, taking a deep breath before writing,

 _Girl From the Future - Happy birthday. I have no idea how old you are. I have no idea what to give you as a gift, or what to say to you. Truly, I have no idea what is going on or what to do. Today, as always, you cause me to stumble in a most uncomfortable fashion. Happy birthday, in any case. - Tom._

He didn't bother smiling or laughing before crumpling up that note and setting it on fire with his wand. He watched it curl and blacked and burn before it disappeared into a pile of ash, and he Vanished the grey powder left behind. He stared at the fresh sheet of parchment before him for quite a long while before he wrote,

 _Dear Hermione, May this be the first of a great many 'Happy birthdays' I shall wish you. With all the admiration of a man who finds you very beautiful indeed, Tom Marvolo Riddle._

Feeling satisfied with that version, Tom blew upon it to dry the ink and then folded it up. He bound it with a black ribbon and sealed it with emerald-coloured wax, pressing the angles of his Gaunt ring into the wax before it dried. He picked up the brown velveteen box that had been sent to him by Edelsten Gull and stalked briskly from the Head Boy's dormitory, making his way to the Great Hall.

She was already there, seated at the Gryffindor table and chatting merrily with her girlfriends. There appeared to be a small celebration happening, with a little cheerful group of Gryffindors singing an embarrassed-looking Hermione a song whilst she stared at a pastry before her. Finally, they all clapped and cheered. Tom held back, waiting for the Gryffindors to settle back into their seats and resume eating. He caught Hermione's eye as he entered the Great Hall and smirked at her, relishing the way her face lit up when she saw him.

He moved around the Gryffindor table and approached her from behind, watching with amusement as Betty Cattermole and Maggie Prewett stared at him in fascination. Hermione looked resolutely ahead, though Tom was well aware she knew he was behind her. He snaked his arms around her neck, placing the sealed note and the brown box upon the table before her. He leaned down and placed a delicate kiss upon her cheek, feeling it flush hot beneath his lips as he did.

"Happy birthday, Hermione," he said smoothly, dragging his fingertips up her arms as he rose to stand. He let his hands linger upon her shoulders for a long moment before he turned on his heels and walked back to the Slytherin table, settling into his seat and doling out his breakfast portion. Orion Black and his cousin Cygnus were talking to Nott, Mulciber, and Malfoy about Quidditch, as per usual.

Tom returned the ladle to the bowl of porridge and raised his eyes to the Gryffindor table. Hermione had her back to him, but Maggie Prewett and Betty Cattermole both wore enormous grins as they marveled at what she held in her hands. Suddenly something pale purple glinted as Hermione moved to plant a hair comb into her neatly-formed curls. Tom smiled crookedly. He very much liked the look of the porcelain lilac creation he'd had made for her. It suited the caramel colour of her hair nicely.

Hermione turned over her shoulder then and smiled broadly at Tom. He could see that she had his note in her hands, as well. Her eyes gleamed with an emotion he had difficulty discerning - happiness and gratitude and something much deeper. She mouthed, ' _Thank you, Tom,_ ' and smiled ever more widely. His own smirk grew more crooked, and he nodded self-consciously. He brought a spoonful of porridge to his mouth, trying to focus on the inane Quidditch conversation happening at his table. He couldn't help it if every few moments, his eyes made their way to the girl with the purple flowers in her hair. She was too lovely to ignore.

And it _was_ her birthday, after all.

* * *

 _October, 1944_

Two weeks later, at breakfast, Hermione was halfway through a bite of scone when Betty Cattermole said from beside her,

"I think that if I'm not asked to the Slug Club Autumn Party, I shall simply perish of humiliation."

Hermione nearly choked upon her scone, shaking her head and laughing aloud. Betty scowled as Hermione gulped pumpkin juice and shook her head as she set down her goblet.

"I'm not anxious to go at all," she admitted. "Perhaps _you_ can go with Tom so I don't have to. The last time was… not very fun."

She thought back to the last Slug Club party she'd attended, in the spring. That particular event had led directly to the death of Ladon Scamander, and Hermione had a great sense of unease about attending another of Slughorn's private get-togethers. But Tom had insisted to her that it was crucial he attend, for the Slug Club was for 'Very Important Students Only,' and didn't she realise that Tom was the Most Important Student of all? And, he'd said in a falsely offhanded fashion, he had no intention of attending with anyone but Hermione.

So she'd approached Professor Dumbledore and explained that she had no wizarding money in this era, and he'd replied that he had quietly set up a small stipend fund for her to prepare for after she left school. Dumbledore recommended that Hermione invest in some clothing that did not consist of a Hogwarts uniform, and she'd sent away for some dresses and robes from Madam Malkin's after taking measurements. Just that morning, she'd awakened to find that a number of twine-tied parcels had appeared at the foot of her bed. How, she did not know, and did not particularly care to find out. The Slug Club party was the following night, and Hermione had been accumulating anxiety about clothing atop her anxiety about attending in the first place.

"I'm certain you'll have a positively wonderful time," Betty said rather bitterly, rousing Hermione from her reverie. Betty leaned upon her hand and pouted her full red lips, swirling her spoon in her bowl of porridge and dropping in a sliced strawberry morosely.

"Cheer up, Betty," said Maggie Prewett, patting her friend's shoulder. "Slug Club parties are meaningless, anyway. It's only for Professor Slughorn to feel as though he's ingratiating himself into the 'great' wizarding families, you know?"

"You're only saying that because _you_ weren't invited, either," moaned Betty, and Maggie scowled, pulling her hand back from Betty's shoulder. Hermione grimaced, uncertain how to gracefully redirect the conversation.

"Erm… did you both finish Professor Dumbledore's Conjuring assignment?" she asked lightly.

"No," Betty and Maggie both said at once, and Hermione's face fell as she realised she'd failed at lightening the mood.

"Oh," she said quietly. She took a delicate sip of pumpkin juice and mumbled, "I can help you after breakfast, if you'd like."

An hour later, the girls were in an empty classroom and Hermione was showing them both how to Conjure a crystal vase, then fill it with water and flowers. The Advanced Transfiguration assignment involved completing this task within thirty seconds total.

"My approach is to ensure that my vessel is rather small, but obviously structurally sound to hold water and flowers," Hermione explained to Betty and Maggie. "Draw your wand in a 'U' formation for the height of the vase you're Conjuring, then swirl it in a circle which is the circumference of the top of the vase. The ratio of these sizes must make sense, or else your vase won't stand up by itself; it may tip over or be too squat to hold flowers. You also want to ensure you can hold the vase in one hand since you're casting with your wand. I prefer to hold the vase just in case it isn't sound enough to stand upon a table. It does take practise to get the size and shape correct. Like this…" She dragged her wand in an elegant formation and murmured, " _Vas Uitreo_."

A perfectly formed crystal vase appeared in Hermione's left hand, seeming to materialise straight from the air before her. Hermione tapped the side of the vase before it even finished forming and said firmly, " _Aguamenti,_ " and water poured forth from the tip of her wand, filling the vase halfway. Finally, she said, " _Eludebas Syringa._ "

A few sprigs of violently purple lilacs bloomed, their green stems descending down into the water in the vase. Hermione stared at her work for a long moment, thinking of Tom and all the times he had given her lilacs over the past six months. She had rarely thought of the damned flowers before him. Sometimes, when she was a child, she'd picked them from her mother's garden and taken them into the house and put them in a jelly jar with water from the tap. Her mother would grin and thank her and tell Hermione that they were perfect. The lilacs would sit on a ledge above the kitchen sink for three days until they wilted and died, and then Hermione's mother would surreptitiously throw them away.

Hermione swallowed thickly as her hand shook, clutching the little vase she'd made with her magic, filled with the flowers that made her think of her mother and of _him_ , and suddenly her hand lost its grip. The vase fell from her hand and crashed to the floor, shattering upon impact and sending water splashing. The vase broke into a thousand crackled shards, and the lilacs lay splayed in a puddle.

Maggie gasped and said, "Hermione, are you all right?"

Hermione raised her wide eyes and stammered, "I - I'm so sorry! I lost my grip… rather tired today… Sorry…"

She Vanished the mess on the floor and cleared her throat, trying to ignore the way Betty and Maggie were eyeing her with concern. She spent the next twenty minutes helping the other two girls speed up their Conjuring, improving their wand movements and the rhythm of transition from spell to spell. At last, all three were able to put flowers and water into vases in no time flat. Betty's flowers of choice were poppies, whilst Maggie preferred to Conjure daffodils. By the end of their practise, Hermione had four vases full of lilacs sitting upon the desk before her. She glanced down at them and flashed a self-conscious smile at Maggie and Betty.

"Shall we go, then, ladies?" she suggested. "It's nearly time for Herbology."

Betty nodded and smiled warmly at Hermione. "Thanks for your help, Hermione. You're properly brilliant with all this, you know. I've no idea how you got so bloody skilled, but I'll admit I'm envious."

Hermione shook her head and waved away the compliment. "It's nothing," she insisted modestly. "You two are my friends. Naturally I'm going to help you get top marks on an assignment if I can. And, anyway, I enjoy Conjuring up flowers in my free time." She chuckled at her own jape, and she watched as Betty and Maggie nodded knowingly. Maggie crossed her arms over her chest and smirked.

"Particularly lilacs," Betty said with a wink, and Hermione's mouth dropped open in protest. Betty continued, "Those are _his_ flowers for you. Tom's. Don't be ashamed, Hermione! I think it's dreadfully romantic!"

Hermione felt her cheeks flush, embarrassed as she realised that for the first time in her life she was in a publicly recognised relationship, at least to some degree. "I've always liked lilacs," she insisted under her breath, Vanishing the vases one by one until the desk was empty. But Betty scoffed in amused disbelief, and Maggie chuckled as she made her own work disappear.

"Honestly, Hermione," Betty said, shaking her head, "I think you ought to be quite pleased that Tom Riddle has taken to you so strongly. During the few weeks I went home to see my parents after my brother… well, after my brother was killed… anyway, my father said he's certain Tom Riddle will be Minister for Magic someday."

Hermione felt a pit in her stomach. "Oh, I don't know, Betty," she shrugged. "And, anyway, it's not as if I'm married to him."

"Not _yet_ ," laughed Maggie. Hermione thought back to how Tom had spoken of giving Hermione a ring, of how she'd received a letter from his future self, and she wondered whether it was an inevitability that she would marry Tom. As she made her way out of the castle toward the Herbology greenhouses with her friends, Betty asked a question that made Hermione stop dead in her tracks.

"Do you love him?"

Hermione balked and tried to look offended. In reality, she felt queasy with shock. "P-pardon me?" she demanded. Betty seemed delighted by how baffled Hermione had become, and she cocked up a blonde eyebrow and repeated, "Do you love Tom Riddle?"

Hermione shook her head fiercely and snorted. "Betty Cattermole, don't be ridiculous. I haven't known the boy long enough to possibly fall in love with him -"

"It's been six months," Maggie reminded Hermione, her voice laced with scepticism. She tossed her red hair over her shoulders and said imperiously, "My mother met my father just after she left Hogwarts. Three months later he proposed marriage; they were fiercely in love. Twenty-five years on, they're still married with four children and more in love than ever from what I understand. Either you love him or you do not, but six months is plenty of time to discern feelings given how ardently Mr Riddle has hurled himself toward you."

Hermione sensed some jealousy from Maggie, and she pinched her lips and avoided engaging the other girl. She just nodded and turned back to Betty. She clutched her Herbology textbook tightly to her chest as she admitted, "I think about him as I fall asleep, and then I dream of him. I wonder what it would be like to grow old with him. I think he will be quite important, quite powerful, quite influential… and I want to see it. _With_ him. I find him intriguing, and intelligent, and handsome, and I enjoy the time I spend with him. He makes my knees go weak; he makes my ears ring and my throat go dry. He gives me lilacs because he says I smell of them. The thought of _not_ seeing him for any substantial length of time sends a physical ache through me."

Hermione scuffed her shoe upon the grass and sighed, realising fully what she had just said. Betty Cattermole smirked more broadly and nodded, planting her hands upon her hips. She tutted and said,

"Congratulations. You're properly in love with him, Hermione."

Hermione just nodded, frowning and resuming her walk toward the Herbology greenhouses. It was true, she thought. She'd fought the growing reality inside of her for the past six months, but now it was undeniable.

She was in love with Tom Marvolo Riddle.

* * *

 _The Following Evening_

Hermione stared at herself in the full-length mirror inside the door of her wardrobe and let out a shaky sigh. She popped off the lid of her lipstick tube and put on a coat of plum colouring, casting her wand at her face and whispering, " _Diuturna… Fortis."_

Confident that her makeup would withstand the evening, she put her lipstick back in her cosmetic case and shut the door of her wardrobe. She fidgeted with her hair, knowing there was nothing else she could truly do now to make herself look any better. Not that it mattered, she reminded herself. It was just a Slug Club party.

She had, perhaps, put _too_ much effort into her appearance. But she'd wanted to look nice for Tom, so that he was not embarrassed of her in front of his 'friends.' She wasn't certain why that mattered to her, but for some reason, it did.

Hermione had ordered a dress from Madam Malkin's that fit her body perfectly and looked, admittedly, perfect for the occasion. It was crafted of beautiful soft velvet in a deep royal purple. The little pouf of the sleeves made her arms look slim, whilst the nipped-in waist and wide skirt gave the dress an elegant look. The colour set off the lilac hair comb that she wore - Tom's birthday gift from a few weeks previously. Hermione had managed to sculpt her naturally-frizzy hair into smooth, wide curls with a great deal of creme and wand work, and she had triumphantly planted the lilac comb above and behind her left ear.

As Hermione smoothed her skirts and tried to steady her breath, a soft knock upon her door startled her more than it should have done.

"Come in," she called, for she had left the door unwarded, knowing Tom would come to take her up to Slughorn's party. The door opened with a gentle _click_ , and Hermione shifted awkwardly upon her feet as she tried to appear casual. She wound up leaning rather unnaturally upon her bed post, but she stood up to attention when Tom strode over the threshold.

He looked dreadfully handsome, she thought, for he wore a more formal black jacket than he'd worn to the last Slug Club party, and he had on a black bow tie and more fitted trousers. His hair was perfectly combed and looked neatly trimmed, and his black dress shoes shone with meticulous polishing. Every article of clothing was perfectly tailored, and Tom carried himself as though he were a capable man, not an aspirational boy. Hermione felt a flush of desire creep through her at the sight of him, followed by a crash of shame for being so subject to his appearance.

But it seemed Tom was just as struck by her, if not more so. His hand froze upon the doorknob, and his throat bobbed visibly as his dark eyes trailed up and down Hermione's form. She shivered as she watched him take her in. He finally closed the door and cleared his throat quietly, and then he bowed his head rather reverently before murmuring,

"Miss Granger, you are intoxicatingly beautiful this evening. But I'm afraid I do not want to take you to the party."

Hermione furrowed her brow, feeling mental whiplash. He'd begun by giving her a lovely compliment, but then…

"You… don't want to go to the party?" Hermione repeated cautiously.

Tom shook his head, staring at his shoes. "I should think I would much rather stay here and take every single thing from your body until the only thing left on you is that lilac hair comb. And then I think I would prefer to kiss every bit of skin I can find on you, and be inside of you until you are too hoarse to moan my name any more." He raised his eyes to her and smirked wickedly, sending a chilly spike of need straight to Hermione's groin.

"Th-that does sound far better than the Slug Club party," Hermione admitted rather breathlessly, grasping onto the bed post so that she did not lose her footing as she grew dizzy. Tom chuckled under his breath and stepped across the room in several smooth strides, placing his hands firmly upon Hermione's waist and crushing her mouth with a kiss. Hermione squealed into his mouth as he backed her up against the wall. She put her hands to his chest and pushed gently, but he gripped her waist even harder and delved his tongue more insistently into her mouth. For a brief moment, Hermione was so enthralled by his kiss and his touch that she forgot to resist him, but then she finally wrenched him off of her and gave him a disapproving glare.

"We shall be late," she warned him. "It would not look good, you know, for the Head Boy and Head Girl to be late to a party thrown by a professor."

"Head Boy. Head Girl. Professor." Tom scoffed and shook his head with a bit of disgust. He took a step back from Hermione and wiped at his mouth with the back of his hand. "Childish things. None of it will matter once we're gone from here. They'll all come to parties when I tell them to, and I shall arrive when it suits me."

"I'm certain that's true," Hermione assured him patiently, checking her reflection in the mirror of her wardrobe door to ensure her hair and makeup hadn't become mussed by Tom's ardent kissing. She shut the wardrobe and said to Tom, "But until next June, we are students at Hogwarts, Tom. You _are_ Head Boy, at least for now, and you _are_ going to be late to this party if we do not leave now."

He finally agreed, holding his arm out to her to escort her through the corridors. They chatted for a bit about little nothings - her perfect marks on her Transfiguration assignment, his curiosity about whether a wand from Gregorovitch might be better than one from Ollivander - until they reached an entirely empty corridor. The last rays of the purple-and-gold sunset were shimmering through the windows in the corridor, and Tom paused for a moment and turned to Hermione. She stopped and shook her head at him curiously when he cast a spell around them to mute their conversation to outsiders.

"What's wrong?" she asked. Tom squared his jaw.

"It's all been arranged," he said matter-of-factly. Hermione was confused for a moment, until Tom clarified, "At the Christmas holidays, I shall go to London on the Hogwarts Express. I shall then meet up with the uncle of Abraxas Malfoy, who has connections in Grindelwald's inner circle. Mulciber, Avery, Nott, Cygnus Black, Abraxas and his uncle, and I will then proceed to Nurmengard. The others will create a diversion, and I - once we have solid knowledge of his precise whereabouts - shall kill Gellert Grindelwald myself."

Hermione felt a surge of nausea so strong she thought for certain she might vomit. Her eyelids fluttered for a moment and she swayed where she stood. She felt Tom's hands grasp her shoulders firmly, but she shook off the faint feeling and took an unsteady breath.

"You are planning murder," she said in dull, empty voice. "You are going to kill a human being, and you _know_ it, months ahead of time. You are a murderer."

She raised her eyes to Tom's and knew she must look broken and hurt. Tom's lips parted in an expression of helplessness. He shook his head minutely and whispered, "You know who I am, Hermione."

She nodded and shrugged. "I do," she admitted, loathing herself in that moment. "And, fool that I am, I love you despite the monster in your soul."

The strains of laughter from down the corridor began to grow louder, and Hermione turned toward Slughorn's office. She ignored Tom's open-mouthed look of utter shock at her pronouncement, at her bold declaration that she loved him. She sighed lightly and squared her shoulders, and then she said,

"We're late, Tom. Let's go."

* * *

 _October, 1997_

Lord Voldemort stared out the window at the cold autumn rain that blew nearly sideways. The Regia was a veritable fortress and was protected from the elements by its stone body, the fires in the bellies of its hearths, and by the magic that flowed within it. Even so, Voldemort was often entranced by the sight of thudding rain outside, or by the glisten of ice upon bare tree limbs in the winter. The weather was one thing that he had little ability to control, and so it intrigued him. Given how powerful Voldemort had become in the past fifty years, the rain and ice and sunshine were often the only reminders that there were still limits to his authority.

His fingers fiddled anxiously with the bit of parchment that he'd spent months reading and re-reading in between meetings and interrogations and travel. In the past six months, the note had become so worn from all his nervous handling that it was scarcely legible anymore. But Voldemort had long since memorised the words he had written to himself.

' _You have loved Hermione Granger for the past fifty years. Perhaps one day you ought to tell her so.'_

Lord Voldemort had discovered the note in the box of clippings and other papers he'd sealed up for himself so that, in the case that his memory was lost after sending '1997 Hermione' back in time, he might be able to remember the past he had shared with her. He had opened the sealed box with Parseltongue, just as Hermione had instructed him to do. There had been clippings of news events, most of which were uninteresting after she'd given him her memories from the Pensieve. But then he'd found _this_ … the note that he'd written himself. Instructions to tell Hermione that he loved her.

It was true, of course. He loved her, desperately and deeply, despite the beast that he was at his core. And he _had_ told her so, though only very recently and far too late, all things considered. He'd been wracked with guilt about it for the past six months, if he was honest with himself. That in itself was most unusual. In fact, Lord Voldemort had only felt profoundly guilty about two things that he could recall in his entire existence: the death of his daughter Georgiana, and the fact that he had somehow gone fifty years without telling Hermione that he loved her.

How, he wondered, had he managed to be such a coward on his wedding day that he'd not told her - beautiful bride that she'd been? How had he seen her cradling their newborn daughter and not told her then? How could he have embraced her as they buried Georgie, and not have said it there? And what about later times, as he reveled in his power and she stood beside him, stalwart and loyal?

He had been cruel in many ways, to many people, Voldemort knew. But as he stood and gazed out at the thrashing rain, he thought perhaps the cruelest deed of all had been to make Hermione spend fifty years being implicitly unloved.

For the past six months, he had pondered the consequences of changing that. He had wondered what might happen if he'd told her sooner. Would he fail to become powerful? Would Georgiana have not been born? Would she have rejected him?

No, he'd decided. None of that. Georgiana was predestined by prophecy - destined to come into his life and destined to leave it. She would be born no matter what Voldemort said or didn't say to Hermione. He would not lose Georgiana (not any sooner, anyway) by speaking the truth to the woman he'd loved all these many years.

And, he chastised himself, he'd been an awful coward for failing to do so.

Voldemort sighed and stalked back to his desk, where he'd arranged the jewelled box he'd once used for transporting letters and items to the past. He opened the creaky lid and stared at the worn velvet inside. He sniffed lightly and pulled out a spare bit of crisp parchment, dipped a quill into a pot of ink, dated the top of the paper, and wrote two words before signing his elaborate signature. He blew upon the paper and dried it, hastily folding it and putting it into the box. He shut the box and incanted to send the note back in time. A moment later, he opened the creaking lid once more and found the box empty.

Voldemort's heart thudded a bit as he imagined his teenaged self getting dressed for a party and finding a folded scrap of paper dated fifty-three years in the future. The note would be signed with the alias he had already designed for himself and would be written in the script he would know to be his own. On the paper would be two simple words, a message whose significance his young self would acknowledge immediately.

' _Tell her.'_

* * *

 _October, 1944_

Hermione nibbled delicately at her roast lamb, enjoying the flavour of the mint sauce. Much as she despised the labour provided by the Hogwarts house-elves, it was difficult to deny that they were talented cooks. She set her fork down and sipped at her glass of ruby elf-made wine and savoured the taste of that, too.

"And what of you, Mr Malfoy?" Slughorn was asking between bites. "Have you any aspirations of playing professional Quidditch?"

Hermione sighed, perhaps louder than she had intended to do, and stabbed her fork at her lamb. She heard Tom chuckle beside her as Abraxas launched into a diatribe about 'family obligations,' and Hermione wondered why it was that every Slug Club dinner conversation seemed to inevitably revolve around Quidditch.

"You seem _very_ bored," Tom whispered, his voice warm and buzzing in Hermione's ear as he leaned over to her. She inhaled sharply through her nose at the feel of his proximity and curled up her mouth, shaking her head insistently.

"On the contrary, Mr Riddle," she murmured, so softly only he could hear, "I find such discussions positively illuminating."

"You are a born diplomat," Tom commended her, and she felt him pat her knee lightly as he laughed quietly again. They both ate in silence as they ignored the droning banter at the table, and Tom never removed his hand from Hermione's knee.

"Tom, my boy!" Slughorn said at last. Hermione felt Tom's hand flinch upon her knee; she knew that he must not care to be addressed in such a way in front of his 'friends.' She instinctively reached under the table to put her hand atop his, to reassure him, and then quickly questioned herself as to why she might feel the need to do such a thing.

"Professor Slughorn," Tom acknowledged smoothly, his hand going slack beneath Hermione's. Slughorn gulped down a good bit of elf-made wine, and the glass refilled itself. Hermione rolled her eyes as she wondered how many times Slughorn's glass had been emptied tonight.

"What do you plan to do after leaving school, Tom?" Slughorn asked innocently, and Hermione stifled a snort. She saw that most of the Slytherin boys around the table quickly resumed eating or lowered their eyes, for all of them knew that Tom Riddle had… _unconventional_ … aspirations.

But Tom utterly impressed Hermione, answering Slughorn without missing a beat.

"I have very recently made some promising contacts in the Ministry, Sir, as well as in Diagon Alley."

Tom left it at that, and it wasn't an outright lie. He flashed Slughorn a simple, charming smile and took a bite of lamb. Slughorn looked as though he were going to ask something else, but then he looked confused for a moment and drank more wine. Hermione frowned deeply at Tom, wondering whether he'd cast a wandless and nonverbal Confundus Charm upon Slughorn. Tom said nothing, staring ahead and squeezing Hermione's knee gently.

"Pity we are missing poor Ladon Scamander this time round, eh?" Slughorn said to the assembled students. He raised his glass of wine, sloppily spilling a bit. "May the poor boy rest in peace, wherever he may be. To Ladon Scamander!"

Hermione felt properly ill as she reached for her glass of wine and rose it with a shaking hand. She did not repeat the cheer as the others at the table did, for she found herself suddenly unable to speak Ladon's name. Tom pulled his hand slowly from Hermione's knee, probably thinking that she would not want him to touch her after Slughorn's toast to the boy he'd murdered on her behalf. But Hermione pulled his hand back under the table and held it fast in hers, nodding her head and staring down at her plate of food. From across the room, the string ensemble began to play a lively tune.

"You know what that means, all!" Slughorn cried happily. "It's time to dance! Oh, yes, yes, Mr Hopkirk, I'm afraid that means you, too! Just grab hold of Miss Macmillan, there… yes, lovely… let's all have a nice waltz, shall we?"

Hermione stifled a giggle as poor Celia Macmillan was ungracefully dragged to the dance floor by the rather oafish Hufflepuff, Erastus Hopkirk. Hermione turned toward Tom to see that he had risen to his feet and was urging her to do the same.

"Dance with me, will you?" he requested quietly, and Hermione frowned to see a strange look of uncertainty in his face.

 _As if I would turn down dancing with Tom Riddle, of all people,_ she thought, but then she realised there had been a Slug Club party where she'd very nearly done just that. She wondered absently as he led her to the open floor whether she was a different person entirely now. Perhaps it didn't matter. Harry and Ron and Ginny and Neville and Luna and even Draco Malfoy weren't here. None of them had even been born, and their lives had not happened yet. Perhaps none of what Hermione remembered would come to pass, and so it wasn't real after all. It would be a memory to her only, almost as a dream existed only to the person who had dreamed it. Was it possible that real events and people might become true only in the memory of a time traveler? Was it possible that she might live another eighty years, but that every last one would be radically different than the timeline she 'remembered' or had been taught in her youth?

Yes, Hermione decided. That was possible. And, furthermore, now that she had fallen for Tom, it was what she wanted, what she needed. She _was_ a different person. She'd accepted him, in all his terrifying imperfection, and she was prepared to stand beside him for however his life played out.

Tom stopped on the dance floor and turned to Hermione, staring down at her with a primal, glittering sort of longing in his dark eyes. Hermione felt her painted lips part at the sight of him, and as she planted her hand upon his shoulder and laced her fingers through his, she asked,

"Are you all right, Tom?"

He put his right hand squarely upon her waist and cleared his throat, stepping off on the first beat of a leisurely waltz. "I find myself rather in awe of how pretty you are tonight; that's all," he said simply.

Hermione felt dizzy at that, and she tried not to grin as widely as she wanted to do. She tried to think of something to discuss with him that might interest him, but she kept drawing blanks in her mind. She knew he wouldn't want to discuss his plans for Nurmengard further here - that was why he'd chosen to do so in a deserted corridor. And she found herself unable to dredge up any interest in academic discussion at the moment, much less any conversation about the rather depressing current events in both the Muggle and wizarding worlds. She was about to ask Tom whether he had ever eaten a mustard-flavoured Bertie Bott's bean, but then Tom said gently,

"Perhaps it is merely a psychological effect - seeing the comb in your hair, probably - but I find myself particularly intoxicated by the aroma of lilacs and fresh rain this evening."

Hermione shook her head and laughed, for she herself had been comforted by his scent of rosewood, soap, cinnamon, and iron all evening. Indeed, at dinner she had been so overcome by the pleasant smell of him that she'd grown rather sticky between her legs and had shut her eyes just long enough to imagine a long walk with him in London in the summertime.

"I wish I knew why I find your fragrance so… addictive," Hermione confessed, "and why you are so drawn to mine. It is not an effect with which I am familiar, and, as you know, I have read a great many books on the subject of -"

"There are some things, Hermione, which can not be found in books." Tom's voice was firm then. He led her in a graceful turn and guided the two of them away from the little clump of couples who were awkwardly rocking to the waltz. Tom expertly led Hermione to a darkened corner of the dance floor and slowly drew her in closer to his body, so close that she was positively overwhelmed by the warmth and smell and sight of him. Tom squared his jaw and seemed to consider his words before he said carefully,

"I believe that I sensed you in the Amortentia that first day as a sort of Magical signal - a way for my body and mind and soul to realise you had been sent by me, _to_ me. That you were meant to be mine. I believe that you sensed me in the potion to help dissolve your preconceived hatred for me, to make it easier for you to develop some semblance of positive emotion toward me."

Hermione struggled to keep dancing and gripped Tom's shoulder and hand more tightly as she watched his throat bob with a heavy gulp. His long fingers trembled a bit upon Hermione's waist as he hesitantly whispered,

"You said in the corridor that you loved me."

"Yes." Hermione nodded resolutely. She licked her lips and knew that she spoke the truth as she affirmed, "I said it because I do… I can not help it, Tom Riddle. I do love you."

Tom shut his eyes for a moment and breathed out slowly through his nose as if he were praying for assistance, though Hermione knew that absolutely was not happening. Finally, he opened his eyes, and they were dark and glittering with intensity. He flattened his mouth into a line and spoke in a warm, rumbling voice,

"For my entire life up to this point, I have heard people speak of love and I have mocked it mercilessly. I have scoffed and derided, for, up to this point, love was something I could not vaguely comprehend. People around me spoke of parents loving children - what did I know of that? People spoke of loving 'home' - of that, too, I knew nothing. And people spoke of falling in love. To me, it seemed a dreadful distraction to do such a thing, even if it were possible to do so… and I often doubted even that notion. I frequently was grateful that I was seemingly immune to such a silly, awful thing as _love_ … that terrible emotion that appeared to cripple men and torment women. I was _glad_ , truly, that I would never, ever be weakened by love."

He stopped dancing then, though the music continued. Hermione felt her heart pounding so fiercely inside of her chest that she thought it might thud its way clear out of her body and land upon the floor. Somehow, she kept her left hand upon Tom's shoulder even as he drew her flush against him by her waist. He was delightfully warm, and he smelled of rosewood, soap, cinnamon, and iron so strongly that Hermione's knees buckled a bit. She stared up at Tom and saw that he seemed slightly more confident now than he'd been before. He lowered their clasped hands to their sides and continued speaking in his sibilant murmur.

"I was right," Tom insisted. "I never was weakened by love, and I never shall be." He licked his bottom lip and then dragged his teeth there, studying Hermione's face for a moment. Then, at last, he said, "I never knew what any of those fools were talking about, Hermione, until you appeared out of nowhere like a damned bolt of lightning. You have mystified me, enraged me, aroused me, and entranced me. You have a brilliant mind, and you are utterly beautiful in my eyes. You are clever, and kind, and interesting, and I have fallen completely in love with you."

He leaned down and kissed Hermione's forehead. She felt as though the room were spinning, as though she were dreaming. He couldn't be saying this… he would never say such things, would he? Not to her, not to anybody? Hermione tipped her face up to protest that Tom had gone insane, but her mouth was caught by his into a fierce kiss. Some distant part of Hermione's mind realised that they weren't very well hidden at all, that probably people were watching them snog, that Professor Slughorn would take points and give them detention and that Headmaster Dippet would revoke their titles of Head Boy and Head Girl.

Tom Riddle was clutching her waist and her hand and kissing her madly, and he had just informed her he was in love with her… all in front of a room full of people. And Hermione found that she simply did not care.

* * *

 _October 1944_

Tom only broke away from Hermione after he felt a bit dizzy and needed to breathe. She looked up at him with wide eyes, her expression somewhere between amusement and fear, and she whispered, "Everyone's staring at us."

It was true. The string ensemble had continued playing, albeit rather distractedly, but most of the students who had been dancing had paused and were gaping in disbelief. Slughorn, who had by now consumed entirely too much elf-made wine, was clapping his hands and spilling his glass as he guffawed rather maniacally at the sight of young romance. Tom cleared his throat, only then realising just for how long he had been kissing Hermione. He had been entirely lost in her, and for all he knew he'd been locked against her for a great long while.

He gave her a reverent little bow and cleared his throat gently before saying, loud enough for everyone to hear, "Pardon me, Miss Villeneuve. I forgot myself. That was ungentlemanly. Mr Malfoy shall escort you to your room after the party. I think it best that I leave now. Good evening."

"Good evening, Tom," Hermione had murmured numbly as Tom strode quickly from the room, avoiding eye contact with Slughorn as he did. As he descended quickly down staircases and dashed hastily through corridors, he wondered whether he ought to care what anybody else thought. Probably, he figured, he would be docked points from Slytherin. Likely he'd be assigned detentions.

Fine, Tom thought. He could scrub some floors by hand in exchange for that kiss. He could accept that. He only hoped that he hadn't embarrassed Hermione by being so bold in front of everyone with her. He knew that his reputation would hardly suffer - if anything, his 'friends' would now look at him with awe as the Head Boy who couldn't be bothered with rules. But Hermione might face backlash from girls who felt jealous or were inclined to gossip. And he did not want that for her. He would not allow it.

It would be much easier, he reckoned, if he could simply legitimise their relationship and do away with all the pretense of courtship. They were both of age in the wizarding world, after all, and he wanted her to be his wife. And Tom Riddle always got what he wanted. Besides, he could just see Albus Dumbledore catching word of the incident at the Slug Club party and forcing one of the two of them into a new room.

' _It isn't fitting, Tom, for the two of you to live next-door to one another, given what's happened,'_ Dumbledore would say, with his maddeningly calm, disapproving tone and his judgmental stare. Then he would announce, ' _I have made provisions for you to move into a private chamber in the dungeons, whilst Miss Villeneuve will move back into Gryffindor Tower.'_

Tom knew full well that Albus Dumbledore did not trust him, that he was interpreted by the old wizard as a threat. Well, the old dunce wasn't wrong about that. Tom _was_ a threat to everything Dumbledore valued - a very specific set of Gryffindor-style morality. He predicted a fierce backlash from Dumbledore upon learning that Tom and Hermione were together, particularly since seemed possible Dumbledore knew at least some of the truth about Hermione.

He flung open the door to his dormitory and quickly unbuttoned his suit jacket, cross with himself for losing control. As he hung up the jacket in his wardrobe, he thought back to earlier that evening, to how he'd received a note dated decades in the future. _Tell her,_ the note had said, and it had been signed with a flourishing signature. _Lord Voldemort,_ written in Tom's own script, as if to reassure himself that it was a bona fide communication from his much-older self.

Tom kicked off his dress shoes and shut the wardrobe, sighing as he contemplated how quickly the note had sunk into his consciousness. Of course he'd known precisely what those two words meant the moment he'd read them. He had been haunted for the past two weeks by incessant thoughts and dreams of Hermione, nearly to the point of distraction from schoolwork and his plots surrounding the Nurmengard assault.

He had been outside one night, soaring over the lake as he perfected the technique for unassisted flight he'd taught himself. He had descended down until he briefly thought he might plunge into the glassy water, but then he'd pulled up and catapulted skyward, so quickly that his stomach had turned. He had glanced back toward the castle, at the dim twinkling of candlelight in the windows. In that moment, a very strange thought had wormed its way into his mind.

 _If I leave this place and she does not come with me, my ambition shall turn to dust._

In his dormitory after the Slug Club party, thinking back over it all, Tom felt bile rise to his throat. He was a fool, just like the rest of them, he scolded himself, unbuttoning his cuffs and rolling up his shirt sleeves to his elbows. He untucked his shirt from his dress pants and loosened his tie, raking his fingers through his hair with a sigh. He sat in the chair before his hearth and pointed his wand at the soot-blackened bricks, whispering, " _Incendio._ " He stared at the ensuing flames for a great while, thinking of Hermione and Grindelwald and Dumbledore and a great many other troublesome things.

His contemplation was finally broken by the soft hum of voices just outside his door. The words were muffled, but he recognised the tone of Hermione's voice, and of Abraxas Malfoy's. Tom strode toward his door and opened it silently, glancing down the corridor toward Hermione's bedroom. Malfoy and Hermione had their backs to him and were approaching her door, walking rather disconcertingly near one another.

"He is going to be extremely powerful, Hermione," Tom heard Abraxas Malfoy say, and he quirked up his eyebrows at that, feeling pleased. He saw Hermione nod a bit, and then she replied in a quiet voice laced with a twinge of regret,

"I know he is. He shall be the Dark Lord himself, I think."

Tom felt an odd stirring of want for her then, an almost physical ache of admiration for her, and he felt himself drawn from the threshold of his doorway. As he stalked quietly toward Hermione's room, he heard her say,

"Thank you for walking -"

"Malfoy, I can take it from here."

Hermione and Abraxas turned round quickly, with Hermione letting out a little gasp. She looked up and down Tom's rather rumpled form; he was half-undressed at this point and had mussed his hair terribly. There was a strange flash in her amber eyes, and she swept her tongue across her bottom lip before she stammered,

"T-Tom… I was just thanking Abraxas for -"

"Yes, I heard you." Tom nodded curtly to the blonde-haired boy beside her and said, "Good night, then, Malfoy."

"Good night, sir," Malfoy replied, and Tom smirked a bit to hear Malfoy address him in such a manner. Malfoy gave Hermione a little respectful bow of his head, and then he walked away, the click of his dress shoes growing softer as he turned the corner. Tom stared down at Hermione, noting the way her slightly parted lips trembled a bit.

"Would you care to come inside?" she whispered, fumbling for her wand and murmuring a few spells to unward her door. The lock clicked and the door swung open a bit. Hermione glanced up rather nervously to Tom, and he gave her a teasing smile.

"It's well after curfew, Miss Ill-Behaved Head Girl," he reminded her. "We wouldn't want to go about breaking rules."

"Wouldn't we?" She looked almost alarmingly serious. Then she pushed upon the door and stepped into her room, leaving the door wide open for Tom to follow her. He did, shutting the door behind him and glancing about Hermione's room. It was a bit messier than his. She had more clutter - cosmetics and books and what appeared to be a handmade jumper tossed over the back of a chair. But it smelled like her, and it was warm and inviting and inexplicably comforting.

Tom watched wordlessly as Hermione kicked off her high-heeled shoes and sighed with relief, rubbing at her feet and pulling off her stockings one at a time.

"Will you do the buttons?" she asked absently, and for a moment Tom had no idea what she was talking about. Then she stood up and turned her back to him, and he saw that her plum-coloured velvet dress had a row of small buttons all down the back of it. He cleared his throat and said rather nervously,

"Yes. Of course." He approached her and tried to steady his fingers as she swept her curls over one shoulder. As he peeled the little loops off of the buttons, his eyes wandered to the lilac hair comb he'd given her, and then back down to the bare expanse of her back that was being slowly revealed. There was a tightening in his trousers then, accompanied by a warmth spreading from his chest down his arms. Tom stared at the part of Hermione's neck that had been bared when she'd pulled aside her hair. He studied the elegant curve between her neck and shoulder, the way her skin seemed warm and soft.

Some instinct told him to kiss her there, and so he did, slowly lowering his head and touching his lips to the place just below her ear. Hermione shivered the instant Tom kissed her, and a cracked little whimper escaped her lips. Tom snaked his arms around Hermione's waist and brought her back against him, knowing she could feel his growing arousal and not much caring. He kissed her neck again, delicately and slowly, and she sighed as she reached up behind her and snarled her fingers in Tom's hair. Her dull fingernails dragged carefully around his scalp, sending a shock up his spine, and Tom's hips bucked against Hermione's back. Suddenly the kisses at her neck were neither soft nor gentle. He opened his mouth and tried to drink her in, his mouth lathing the skin there and nibbling as he moaned desperately against her.

She spun round and shimmied out of her open dress; it fell to pool around her feet and she kicked it aside carelessly. Her fingers flew to the buttons of Tom's shirt, and then everything happened very quickly. He was fully disrobed in what seemed like an instant, she was wiggling out of her knickers, and then he was hoisting her off the ground and dropping her upon the bed.

"Oof!" Hermione exclaimed with a giggle. Tom was serious as he stared down at her where she lay among the pillows and the duvet. He studied her in silence for a long moment, his breath shaking through his nose. A self-conscious expression came over Hermione's face as she blushed and discreetly half-covered her most private bits. "What is it?" she demanded, her nervous voice contradicting her little grin.

Tom shut his eyes, feeling a bit overwhelmed by it all. "I need you," he admitted, and he heard Hermione giggle softly. He opened his eyes and frowned.

"Then take me," she shrugged, moving her hands away to reveal herself to him. Tom chewed the inside of his cheek and said,

"I do not speak only of tonight, Hermione."

Her playful smile disappeared and she nodded knowingly. She sat up a bit upon the pillows and patted the duvet beside her. "Will you lie down with me, Tom?" she asked, and he furrowed his brow, wondering what she was playing at. He kept his guard up as she peeled back her covers and climbed beneath the sheets, inviting him to do the same.

He'd never slept in her bed; their illicit overnight escapades had always occurred in his room. But as Tom slid beneath her sheets and felt the warm pulse of her body beside him, he reckoned he could sleep soundly as the grave here. He arranged himself upon his side facing her, and he stared at her for a long while until his hand drifted up and nestled in the increasingly tangled mess of her hair. Her eyes consumed him, and he noted that he very much liked their colour. Like warm cider flecked with firelight.

She had been staring at his own eyes, he realised, when she whispered in an odd voice, "Your eyes were red. Frightening."

Tom licked his bottom lip and carefully considered his words. He shook his head and insisted, "My eyes will never be red, Hermione. I will never be the shell of man who sent you here. Not if I have you with me."

Her gaze glistened with suddenly formed tears, and she took a deep, shaking breath. "I worry about who you _will_ be," she admitted. "I worry about what will happen to you at Nurmengard. I want you to let me come with you."

Tom's hand froze upon her hair then, and he squared his jaw. His voice was icy and detached as he said firmly, "No."

Hermione pushed herself up onto an elbow and a cross expression came over her. Tom sat up against the pillows and glared at her. The air around him crackled as his magic flared, uncontrolled. "Do not test me, Hermione," he warned her. "This is not up for discussion. You will not come."

"Tom," she huffed angrily, "What good do you suppose Mulciber and Avery will do you against Grindelwald? He has magical guards, he has wards, he has all manner of protection that will far surpass the measly 'skills' of your cronies. You will essentially be attacking Grindelwald on your own, whilst you sacrifice your 'friends' as a distraction. I propose that you leave Mulciber and Avery and Nott and Malfoy and rest of them at home. Spare their lives; you know full well they would never survive a conflict at Nurmengard. I have abilities they do not, and you know it. I will go and create a diversion whilst you seek out Grindelwald directly."

Tom felt a searing rage in his chest, and he shook his head vehemently. "Absolutely not," he seethed. "I would sooner lose every single one of them than put you in any sort of danger."

Hermione sighed patiently and clasped her hands, staring at her fingernails as she said quietly, "Tom, if you had any idea the mortal peril you put me in during my own time, you would know that I am neither afraid of danger nor incapable of overcoming it." She raised her eyes to him and swiped a lone tear from her cheek, looking resolute as she told him, "I can not agree with the notion of premeditated murder, Tom. But I am also loathe to lose you. The truth is that I do not trust those boys to buy you the time or space to carry out your task… the task to which you have set your mind and ambition. And, believe me, I realise that you will not be swayed in that regard."

Tom did not know what to say then, for she was making a maddening amount of sense. He opened his mouth to speak and then shut it when he realised he had nothing of use to say. Hermione swallowed thickly and repeated,

"I will go alone with you, and I will distract Grindelwald's guards. I have a fully-formed corporeal Patronus; do you not suppose he might have Dementors?" She smirked suddenly as she said, "And, besides, I am _very_ adept with the Penis Pain curse."

Tom snorted, recalling the way she'd hexed him in their duel during lessons. Then he remembered how he'd hit her with the Blood on Fire curse, and he shoved the memory from his head. Hermione reached for Tom's hand and laced her fingers through his.

"You want me to stay with you? Then understand this. If you fall, I fall with you. If you fly, I fly with you."

Tom kissed her then, unable to keep from doing so any longer. She tasted like vanilla and lemon, like a warm summer's morning. He gently pushed her down onto her back and reached for his wand off the table beside the bed. He pointed the tip at her belly, hand shaking fiercely, and cast the necessary spells to protect her. Then he tossed his wand aside and resumed kissing her. She reached between them at some point, her little hand wrapping around Tom's member and guiding him between her legs. He started moving on instinct, pumping his hips in a steady rhythm and moving his lips to Hermione's neck.

She felt so deliciously tight around him, so warm and wet and welcoming. He was nearly in a trance as he moved smoothly - in and out, in and out, in and out - almost as though he were a machine. The ball of anticipation in his belly began to glow hot and white and spread out through every nerve he possessed, growing more insistent until Tom knew he had only seconds to spare. He broke away from Hermione's neck and stared at her face, admiring the way her caramel eyes were clenched tightly shut, the way her teeth dug into her lower lip. He petted her wild hair, splayed in a messy halo around her head, and he heard her whisper his name a few times.

"Hermione," Tom groaned through gritted teeth, trying desperately to stave off his climax, "Open your eyes for a moment, will you?"

She did, and he nearly lost control when her gaze met his. She smiled warmly up at him, and she reached up to trace the lines of his jaw. Tom fell over the edge then, bucking his hips roughly against her as his pleasure exploded and his ears rang. The tension in his groin released with his seed, and he grunted wordlessly a few times as he stared intently into Hermione's lovely eyes. Finally, he managed to breathlessly lean down and kiss her upon the lips, and then he moved his mouth to her ear and whispered,

"I love you, Hermione."

* * *

 _October 1997_

Hermione descended the staircase from the sixth floor to the fifth, noticing with some frustration the way her bones creaked and her joints ached as she moved. She would put some butterfly weed balm on her knees later, she figured, to ease the painful effects of aging as best she could.

"Excuse me… Headmistress?"

Hermione turned round on the fifth floor landing and saw Professor Aurora Sinistra striding quickly toward her. Hermione flashed the Astronomy teacher a small smile. "Good evening, Aurora."

"I've just come from the Astronomy Tower, Headmistress, and whilst there I saw an owl fly into the window of your office. It seemed to have a bundle on its feet. I wanted to let you know in case perhaps it was something important."

Hermione nodded gratefully. Aurora Sinistra trotted quickly up the steps, and Hermione stared at them in her wake, pinching her lips into a straight line. She wished she hadn't just come down the stairs. She sighed brusquely and trudged up the staircase, greeting students as she passed them and made her way to the Headmistress' office.

The litany of portraits in the office included a great many notable former Headmasters of Hogwarts. Albus Dumbledore was not among them. Though a portrait of Dumbledore had existed, Hermione had refused to hang it in the office, owing to Dumbledore's role in Georgiana's death. She had not exactly been sorry the day that Tom had set the portrait of Dumbledore on fire, either.

Hermione sighed and pulled out her chair, shoving aside her stacks of paperwork. Upon the desk lay a copy of the _Daily Prophet_ and an envelope bearing Tom's familiar script.

 _Headmistress Villeneuve_ , it read. For the past fifty-three years, Hermione had publicly kept the surname with which she'd arrived in her new life. Tom had long since dropped the surname 'Riddle,' which he associated with the man who had been duped into fathering him and had subsequently abandoned him. And Hermione could scarcely go about calling herself 'Granger.' Neither did it make sense to be 'Headmistress Voldemort,' since that title belonged only to Tom. Therefore, she had been 'Hermione Villeneuve' longer than she'd been 'Hermione Granger.' The name felt natural now, real and true and not at all fabricated.

To some degree, Hermione had forgotten the first seventeen years of her life. Many details were still crisp and sharp and altogether traumatising. Others had grown hazy through the years, and some memories had faded entirely. She still vividly remembered Harry Potter, and Ronald Weasley and his sister Ginny. She still remembered her parents, and she remembered Albus Dumbledore before she'd hated him. She remembered fighting a mountain troll her very first year at Hogwarts, and she remembered fighting Tom's forces in the Department of Mysteries during her fifth.

But those memories had grown less significant over the years, for now they felt more like a very vivid dream. After all, Harry Potter was not a person. And Albus Dumbledore was long since dead. And there had been no mountain troll, no battle at the Ministry. The years of those events had come and gone, and none of it had happened.

Hermione opened the envelope from Tom and sat down in her chair, reading the letter he'd penned to her.

 _Hermione,_

 _Please read front-page story in the attached copy of the Daily Prophet. I believe you will find it most interesting. I hope it is sufficient._

 _Yours,_

 _Tom_

Hermione put the note aside and curiously unfurled the newspaper. Her eyes went wide when she read the headline, and then they burned a bit with emotion as she realised what the article contained.

 _NEW MUGGLE-BORN INTEGRATION PROGRAMME ANNOUNCED!_

 _The Ministry of Magic has announced on behalf of the Dark Lord that a new Muggle-Born Integration scheme will be implemented effective immediately. This programme is intended to combat plummeting birth rates among pureblood and halfblood wizarding families. The scheme shall involve a comprehensive inclusionary system for marriage, procreation, employment, and education on a case-by-case basis…_

Hermione felt her lips curl up into a smile as she folded the newspaper and sighed deeply. She eyed the bottle of firewhisky in the corner of the office, thinking that perhaps she had earned herself a celebratory tumbler.

* * *

 _October, 1944_

Tom stared at the ceiling as he absently twirled a finger round a lock of Hermione's hair. She was curled against him, naked and warm and sleeping, and he wondered distantly if she was dreaming. He could easily sneak into her mind and see for himself, without waking her, but for some reason that felt like the wrong thing to do.

So he simply stared at the ceiling and wondered. He wondered whether he was a fool for agreeing to Hermione's plan for the Nurmengard attack. She was right, of course, that she was far more skilled than any of Tom's Slytherin cronies. And she was right that he had a better chance of success with her there. And she was right that if any of his 'friends' came along, they would be killed in the first five minutes.

"If you want any 'followers' when you return triumphantly to Britain, Tom, you shall have to leave them all here," Hermione had told him before she'd drifted off. She had yawned and said, "Besides, if you _aren't_ successful for any reason, don't you suppose Grindelwald would come after me? It is by far the most logical and safest option for everyone involved if you and I go by ourselves. You will achieve your goals, Tom, and I shall do whatever I must to facilitate that."

Tom had kissed her hair and pulled her closer. He'd asked her a question - he could not remember now what it was - but she hadn't answered, for she'd been lost to sleep.

Now Tom stared at the ceiling and wondered whether he ought to give up the goal of conquering Grindelwald entirely. Perhaps, he considered, it _would_ be better to allow Dumbledore to defeat Grindelwald. Hermione would be safer that way.

But as he turned his chin and looked upon her peaceful face, he realised that wasn't what she would want him to do. Grindelwald would be defeated, one way or another. That much was inevitable. Hermione would prefer for Tom to do it, he thought, for that way he could clear a path to power by bursting forth into the wizarding world with a grand statement of authority. Hermione would prefer that because there would be less bloodshed overall that way - fewer little skirmishes and duels and one-off crimes as Tom clawed his way to power.

And she was intelligent enough to know that he craved power nearly as much as he craved air and water. Nearly as much as he craved her.

Tom sighed heavily and Hermione squirmed against him. He pulled his hand from her hair and let it drift down her bare back, feeling the soft expanse of her skin beneath his fingertips as he did. She moaned softly in her sleep as he touched her, and Tom smirked. He stilled his hand, afraid to wake her, and pressed his palm gently to her ribcage as she settled back into her dreams.

There was a soft little rustling sound from beside him then, and Tom frowned as he curiously turned his head to look at floor beside the bed. There had been nothing there before, he knew, but in the silver moonlight he could now see there was something small and rectangular upon the rug. He held his breath and moved as smoothly as he could, pulling away from Hermione and arranging her carefully upon the bed without him. He slid out of the bed and reached for his wand off the bedside table, pointing it at the small rectangle and stalking catlike and cautious.

" _Lumos,_ " he whispered, and the tip of his wand burst into a brilliant light that Tom worried might wake Hermione. He glanced over his shoulder, but she did not stir. He pointed his wand at the ground and saw that the mysterious object was a thick envelope. On the outside he recognised his own script, and he wondered precisely how many communications his future self would deep appropriate to send back in time.

He sighed and picked up the envelope, fumbling through his crumpled trousers and pulling on his underwear. He sat in the chair before Hermione's hearth and whispered, " _Nox._ "

His wand went dark, and he promptly lit a small fire in the fireplace to bathe the room in a more gentle light. Then Tom turned his attention to the envelope, cracking open the wax seal and pulling aside the dark ribbon. There was something small and lumpy in the envelope, and Tom reached inside cautiously, marveling as he pulled out a small, glistening ring. He studied it for a moment, taking in the elegant curls and flourishes around its thin golden band and the small but glittering round diamond atop it. He turned it over in his fingers a few times and squared his jaw as a strange coil of anxiety curled in his abdomen. Then he set the ring upon his lap and pulled out the folded note inside the envelope.

Given the rather significant nature of the object inside the envelope, Tom had, perhaps, expected a rather lengthy letter. So it was with some surprise that he opened the folded note and saw no date, no signature - just two words, in his own hand.

' _Ask her._ '

* * *

 _October, 1951_

Lord Voldemort drummed his fingertips upon the jeweled box in frustration. Outside his office, he could hear the muffled sounds of laughter as Hermione greeted visitors in the main parlour. There had been a steady stream of well-wishers in the days since Georgiana's birth, and Hermione had been cheerful and gracious toward them all. Voldemort granted his presence to those he deemed worthy and ignored those he deemed insignificant.

Tonight he was preoccupied with his project on transporting objects through time and space - something which had vexed him now for years. He understood the significance of making the discovery. After all, he well remembered receiving a ring inside an envelope with a note penned in his own hand. He knew that he had sent himself the ring, and he had no desire to alter that reality.

For the past several years, his experiments with the jeweled box had led to dead ends. He'd managed to send objects through time only (they would wind up in his office five minutes in the future, for example, so he knew they were moving through time). Or he would manage to teleport objects, like the time he had sent Hermione's earring to the windowsill in her sunroom. But Voldemort had not yet managed to conquer time and space simultaneously. He had considered physically going to Hermione's old dormitory at Hogwarts and standing in the middle of the ground and sending the ring from there, knowing it would appear in that spot in a different time. However, he had a nagging desire to achieve his goal, and tonight he felt he was quite close to doing so.

He stared at the jeweled lid of the box and turned the ring over and over in his hand. He had recently snuck it out of Hermione's jewellery box (she had mercifully stopped wearing it during her pregnancy). As he studied the curls and intricacies of the delicate gold band, something in his mind clicked. Voldemort's eyes went wide, and he rushed to scrawl two words upon a bit of parchment and stuff it into an envelope with the ring. He hastily sealed up the envelope with ribbon and wax and marked it to himself. Then he flung open the lid of the box, shoved in the envelope, and shut the lid.

He planted his palms atop the lid and concentrated his magic as he said carefully, " _Ego dominis temporis. Nunc mitto ad praeteritum involucram."_

As his hands grew warm and vibrated slightly, he thought very hard about the inside of Hermione's old dormitory. He remembered how it smelled of her, how there had been a jumper strewn across the back of a chair. And he willed the letter and the ring there, as strongly as he could.

Lord Voldemort opened his eyes and lifted his hands, carefully opening the lid and smiling with relief when he saw the box was empty.

* * *

 _October 1944_

In the morning, Hermione dressed with a measure of dread. She was quite anxious about what Professor Dumbledore would have to say once he learned about Tom's and her brazen behaviour at the Slug Club party the night before. And she was not exactly thrilled to face the Hogwarts student body once the rumour mill began churning.

She said goodbye to Tom and watched as he snuck down the corridor to his own room. She showered quickly and dressed in her school uniform, trying to make her hair and face look as modest and plain as possible for the day. As she shoved textbooks into her rucksack, she remembered that it was Saturday, and that there were no lessons today. She shook her head at her own absentmindedness and changed clothes into a simple wool dress, a rather drab olive green frock that would draw little attention. She pulled on her cloak, for the autumn weather had truly begun to descend upon the castle. As she walked through the corridors to the Great Hall, passing along with throngs of fellow students through the grey gloomy morning, Hermione wondered whether or not they all knew about her licentious behaviour yet.

Perhaps, she thought, she was mentally overblowing the entire issue. She had always tended to do so, to escalate situations and magnify issues about which she bore anxiety. Truly, it had only been a kiss, and Tom had politely excused himself from the party to save face for the both of them. It could easily be explained away as young love and hormones. A playful grin and a shrug ought to sort it all out, Hermione figured. Though she still fretted about Dumbledore's reaction, given that he was the only staff member who did not at all like Tom, and the only one who knew her truth.

For that reason alone, Hermione realised with a jolt, Dumbledore was rather dangerous to both her and Tom. She tried not to think of Dumbledore as she slid into a bench at the Gryffindor table and doled herself some eggs, mushrooms, and oatcakes. Betty Cattermole and Maggie Prewett arrived a few moments later, both of them animatedly chatting with a trio of boys from Hufflepuff. Hermione smirked to herself, glad to see her friends flirting so openly with the boys. They bid the Hufflepuff lads farewell as they sat down at the Gryffindor table, and Betty sighed dreamily as she served herself breakfast.

"Oh, Hermione!" she exclaimed. "Isn't that one dreamy? The tall, lanky one, I mean. He's called Frederick, and he's been to Siam!"

"He sounds fascinating," Hermione said warmly, trying to sound genuine. She shook her head with amusement and took a few bites of her breakfast, and then she heard Maggie say,

"I've been told that a certain Tom Riddle was rather frisky at the Slug Club party last night. Is it true?"

Betty raised her eyebrows at Maggie's words, and both girls eyed Hermione with wide-eyed curiosity. Hermione felt her cheeks go warm, and she sighed. She said tightly,

"He kissed me as we danced is all."

"I was told that little kiss lasted a _very_ long time," Maggie said with a wide grin, taking a sip of pumpkin juice. Hermione huffed and set down her fork. She prepared to respond with a sharp-tongued reply, but then she heard the soft sound of a throat clearing behind her. She turned over her shoulder and saw Tom there, dressed in a surprisingly formal black suit given that it was a weekend.

"Good morning, Miss Cattermole, Miss Prewett," Tom greeted the other girls politely. Then he held out a small bouquet of Conjured lilacs, just three or four stems, and said gently, "Good morning, Hermione."

"Morning, Tom," she replied, taking the lilacs from him. She smelled the flowers and smiled a bit. "They're lovely, as always. Thank you… but may I ask the occasion? Or am I simply to expect random presentations of such lovely flowers when I least expect them?"

Tom did not answer. He looked very nervous all of a sudden, as though he were frightened of some unseen threat. He swallowed visibly and shifted upon his feet, licking his lip. He silently his head toward the lilacs so that Hermione would study them more closely. She frowned and did so with great curiosity, turning the flowers over in her hands and searching for something she'd missed. She transferred the stems from her right hand to her left, and when she did, something fell from one of the stems into her lap.

It was a ring; he'd laced it up into the stems and it had fallen loose. Hermione set the lilacs down upon the table with a trembling hand. Some distant part of her brain heard Maggie and Betty both gasp loudly as she held the ring up, and then she realised precisely what was happening.

But she was entirely unprepared to turn her head and see that Tom Riddle had sunk down onto one knee beside the table.

He took the ring from her hands, which were now shaking fiercely. Hermione was acutely aware of dozens of eyes upon them; she could see students standing up and craning their necks as realisation settled through the Great Hall that the formidable Tom Riddle was proposing marriage to a very lucky witch.

Tom slid the ring onto the fourth finger of Hermione's left hand, and he raised his eyes to her. Though the Great Hall had fallen silent as everyone strained to hear what Tom said, he murmured very quietly, for his words were not spoken to the others. Hermione could tell that from the shaking tone in his voice, the lack of bite and confidence that was ever-present when he spoke publicly. He sounded vulnerable and nervous as he said,

"Hermione, I can not fathom the notion of a life without you. To me, that simply is not an option. It becomes logical, then, to ask how long I am able to wait for you - how patient I can be before I make you mine in every sense of the word. Before I make myself yours. I have asked myself that question. I have come to realise that - about this matter, at least - I possess very little patience indeed. I thirst for you; I ache for you. I do not simply want you, Hermione. The need I have for you, body and mind and soul, runs so deep that it can be neither denied nor ignored. You know that I love you, but I intend on making that plainly evident to you each day until my last. Please, Hermione… marry me."

She felt dizzy and weak all of a sudden, as she nodded numbly and stared at the ring upon her finger. She heard Betty Cattermole squeal boisterously, heard ripples of excited whispers as students realised what had just happened. But her eyes were trained on Tom's, and as his lips curled up into a genuine smile, she felt the most profound happiness she could ever recall.

Suddenly she did not worry at all about what Albus Dumbledore thought of them. And a great bit of her trepidation about the Nurmengard plot dissolved. It was indeed as she had told Tom. If he fell, she would fall with him. If he flew, she would fly with him… every day, until her last.

* * *

 _October 1944_

"What will your dress look like? Shall you have a veil? Ooh, I am simply over the moon with excitement!" Betty Cattermole clapped her hands, causing her charm to break and all of her levitated objects to go crashing to the ground. They were working on charming tea sets to brew and serve tea on their own in Charms lessons, but now all Betty had was a pile of china shards upon the ground.

Professor Sycorax turned round and scowled at the mess, shaking her head impatiently and Vanishing the broken tea set. "I suggest you focus more on your Charms work, Miss Cattermole, and less on social matters, lest your academic reputation suffer." The lanky old witch Summoned a new set of china from the storage cupboard and sent it to Betty's desk. Betty nodded and mumbled an apology.

"Honestly, Betty," Hermione hissed in a low whisper, arcing her wand so that her teapot would pour slowly enough not to spill, "We may not marry for years. We are quite young, you know. And it's only been two days. I haven't had time to think of things like dresses or veils, nor do I care to at the moment."

Even in the mere two days since Tom had knelt down in the Great Hall, the public proposal had become the stuff of Hogwarts legend. Hermione had been doing rounds just the previous night and had heard girls giggling round the corner ahead.

"Oh, but it _is_ rather a shame, isn't it?" one of them sighed at last, sounding wistful. "Tom Riddle is Hogwarts' most eligible bachelor, after all."

"He _was_ ," the girl's friend corrected her. "He's taken now."

"What the blazes does he see in _her_?" the first girl asked cruelly. "Her hair is a proper rat's nest, her teeth buck out a bit, and she's gangly as a giraffe... she must have family money."

Hermione had felt her cheeks colour and grow warm as she neared the corner, listening to the girls guffaw at her expense. She had straightened up as the girls approached and assumed an authoritative stance. The girls, a pair of fifth-year Gryffindors, had frozen in humiliated trepidation when they saw her. Hermione had cocked up an eyebrow and said quite simply,

"It's getting late, girls. Off to bed with both of you."

Now Hermione sighed deeply as she realised she would likely be putting up with a great deal of mean-spirited jealousy in the wake of Tom's proposal. The one thing she did not fear, however, was retribution from Dumbledore about the Slug Club party. It all seemed rather silly now, to worry about an open kiss at a private dinner.

Hermione dragged her wand through the air, guiding her teacup to sit gently upon the desk in front of her. She curled her wand in a flourish and watched as her sugar pot opened and spooned out two lumps of sugar into the cup. Hermione gave a self-satisfied smile and called over Professor Sycorax, who gave her perfect marks for the day.

After lessons, she and Betty made their way from the classroom, intending on meeting Maggie for lunch in the Great Hall. Maggie had opted to take Divination in her seventh year rather than Charms, but the three girls frequently lunched together on Mondays. Hermione was so focused on her conversation with Betty that she walked right past Tom Riddle, not realising it until she heard him say gently,

"Hermione?"

She stopped so abruptly that a second-year Ravenclaw boy with his face buried in a book ploughed straight into her back. They both apologised, and Hermione helped the boy put himself to rights. She pulled to the side of the busy corridor and looked up at Tom, who seemed rather amused by it all as he leaned casually upon the stone balustrade.

"Walk with me, will you?" he asked, and Hermione frowned, flicking her eyes from Betty to Tom.

"I had meant to eat lunch with the girls," she said cautiously, but Betty shook her head and jerked her head toward Tom in encouragement.

"I promise to return you to your luncheon with plenty of time to both eat and socialise," Tom assured her, and he put his hand possessively upon Hermione's back as he guided her in the opposite direction of the Great Hall. Hermione gave Betty an apologetic shrug, and Betty grinned widely.

Students stared intensely at Hermione and Tom as they walked through the corridor; Hermione felt girls' eyes fly to her left hand to ogle her ring, and she saw the boys stare at Tom with admiration and respect. She flicked her eyes up to him and saw that he was walking with a great degree of confidence, his chin tipped up a bit and his eyes trained straight ahead as if blissfully unaware of the attention.

Finally, they reached a quiet courtyard, and he gestured for her to sit upon a bench. She did, wondering what had been so urgent. Tom paced in front of the stone bench with his hands behind his back, making Hermione feel a bit intimidated.

"In light of the new plans for December," Tom began carefully, for at Hogwarts it seemed even the walls had ears, "may I suggest a strategic exchange of skill sets? I believe we may strengthen our overall chances by augmenting one another's abilities as best we can ahead of time."

Hermione furrowed her brow. He obviously meant something quite specific. "What did you have in mind?" she asked.

"For your part, I should like you to assist me in properly Conjuring a Patronus," Tom said, though he hesitated a bit and gulped. Hermione was surprised; he had seemed positively terrified the last time she had suggested he attempt it. He had even mentioned Raczidian, the ancient Dark wizard who had been consumed by maggots in a failed attempt to Conjure a Patronus due to his unworthiness with the spell. What had happened to make Tom so certain he could do it now? And, furthermore, what information had he ascertained about Nurmengard that had made him believe a Patronus would be necessary - so necessary that he was willing to try the spell again? Before she could ask him any of those questions, Tom continued,

"And in exchange, I shall instruct you in Occlumency."

Hermione felt her eyes go wide then. She remembered how, in her fifth year (during her first time at Hogwarts), Harry Potter had been instructed in Occlumency by Severus Snape. Of course, Harry had required Occlumency skills to protect himself against intrusions by Lord Voldemort - by the Dark wizard Tom had become in the nightmarish timeline through which Hermione had lived. She shoved aside the thoughts of that time, gone from her and perhaps from all existence. She flattened her lips into a pinched line and asked Tom,

"Have you reason to believe that Gellert Grindelwald is a Legilimens?"

"He may very well be, though his mental abilities do not concern me," Tom said coolly. He played with his wand casually, dragging his fingers over it and twirling it a few times. Finally, he sniffed lightly and looked at Hermione. "I am far more concerned about Albus Dumbledore's Legilimency."

"Oh." Hermione nodded. That made sense. Now that she was engaged to Tom Riddle, a wizard in whom Dumbledore had absolutely no trust or liking, she would perhaps be a target for mental examination. Especially, she thought, if Dumbledore had any reason to suspect Tom was plotting to travel to the Continent to assassinate Gellert Grindelwald. Hermione took a steadying sigh and asked Tom, "When do we begin?"

He looked pleased with that response, and he said in a firm voice, "My room. Ten o'clock tonight."

She was there, at precisely ten, after finishing her post-curfew rounds. She was very nearly late, for she'd found a few third-year Ravenclaws asleep in the library at a quarter to ten. Having experienced that very problem before, she escorted the rather frantic students back to Ravenclaw Tower, assuring them that there would be no punishment, nor deducted points, for breaking curfew.

She was out of breath by the time she made it to the Armoury Corridor, and it was ten o'clock exactly when she rapped softly upon Tom's door. It opened almost immediately, so quickly that Hermione wondered how Tom could have possibly gotten to it in time. She was even more curious when there was no one standing in the open threshold, and as she stepped curiously into the room, she held her wand out protectively and said,

"H-hello?"

There was no answer, and the room was empty. A small fire burned in the hearth, but aside from that there was no evidence whatsoever that anyone was present.

"Tom?" Hermione heard the quiver in her voice, having been a bit shaken by the way the room had granted her admission of its own accord. Then, suddenly, Tom materialised before her and she realised he had very effectively Disillusioned himself. His wand was pointed squarely at her, and his eyes were black and cold as he muttered,

" _Legilimens._ "

The room swirled away from Hermione, dissolving into frigid blackness as the sound of a steam engine thundered into Hermione's head. She could see the Hogwarts Express then, and she knew that it was a memory of the very first time she'd been to Platform 9 3/4. That memory quickly rushed away and was replaced by an image of Ron Weasley looking mightily disappointed as a Quaffle flew past him; he was a genuinely skilled Keeper and Hermione could practically feel his sense of failure.

Hermione knew the images she saw were memories, that Tom Riddle was inside her mind, and she struggled and tore at her consciousness as if to rip him out. But the memories kept stubbornly flying by, eventually transitioning into her new life. The memory of Tom torturing Ladon Scamander with the Cruciatus Curse flashed forth; a terrible web of red light bursting from Tom's wand and enveloping Ladon's body as the boy shrieked and convulsed. Then Hermione remembered receiving lilacs in the library, and duelling with Tom as he used the Blood on Fire Curse against her. The conflicting images made her head throb painfully, and she tried once more to shove Tom from her head. Finally, in her mind, she was staring up at Tom at the Slug Club party. The maudlin strains of the string music bled into Hermione's mind as the scene faded into view, and then she could hear Tom telling her he had fallen in love with her.

Suddenly she felt a wild, painful jolt in her fingertips, almost as though she had been electrocuted. The scene of the party disappeared from her head with such force that Hermione swayed where she stood and felt as if she might faint. She grappled blindly in the air until her hands clutched at something warm and hard and solid, and then the quiet, dim reality of Tom's dormitory materialised before her.

She was holding onto his school robe, and as she fought to catch her breath, Hermione stumbled backward and scowled at him.

"I apologise if there was anything there you did not wish for me to see," Tom said lightly, though he did not sound very sorry. He straightened his robes where Hermione had wrinkled them by grabbing hold, and he said, "When Legilimency is used as a weapon, there is no warning given. You shall need to be able to throw up your Occlumency defences almost immediately."

Hermione felt so infuriated, so violated, that she contemplated slapping him. But then she realised he had been right to surprise her. He had shown her the ease and speed with which a skilled Legilimens could peer into her mind, and the force it would take for her to keep them out.

"How do I do it?" she demanded, crossing her arms over her chest. Tom did not answer immediately, gesturing instead to the two armchairs before his crackling fireplace. Hermione hesitantly sat opposite him, her heart still thudding in her chest from his intrusion. Tom gazed into the flames as he sat, and he casually asked her,

"If I say the word 'impenetrable' to you, Hermione, what image comes immediately to mind?"

Hermione frowned. Was she meant to play a word association game with him? ' _Impenetrable'?_ Very well, then... she bit the inside of her cheek and said firmly, "A dark, thick jungle."

Tom shook his head disapprovingly. "I shall simply light your forest on fire," he said smoothly, "and burn my way into your memories."

Hermione finally understood what he meant for her to do. She was to formulate a mental defence that could not be overcome by invasive tactics. She nodded hesitantly, and Tom looked her as he said,

"Think of a place where you can hide with your thoughts, a place where no one could find you. A place where no Blasting Curse or Fiendfyre would be powerful enough to make its way to your memories. Think of it, and then think of five more."

Hermione frowned deeply. That was rather a tall order, she thought crossly. But she said nothing, determined to be more successfully with Occlumency than Harry Potter had been in her other life. She swallowed heavily and shut her eyes, trying to think of situations in which no one could possibly attack her.

"This time I shall give you warning," Tom was saying, and Hermione opened his eyes, taking a breath as she prepared for him to enter her mind again. "I find it works better, too, if the only emotion you present is a rather flinty resolve against invasion."

Hermione smirked and nodded, sitting up straight in her chair and filling her mind with her defensive thoughts. Tom raised his wand to her and said softly,

"Three, two, one... _Legilimens._ "

The dormitory disappeared around her as Tom entered her mind. For a flickering moment, Hermione thought he might be watching a childhood Christmas. But then, with a thudding sort of force, the only image she saw was the dank, windowless interior of a concrete bunker buried far beneath a remote mountain. There was nothing inside the bunker - no people, no furniture, nothing of value. Most especially, there were no memories. Hermione, in her mind, sat squarely down in the corner of the bunker and took a deep breath. Then she pushed as hard as she could with her hands into the air before her, thrusting away an unseen enemy.

She crumpled from the chair before Tom's fireplace by the force of his withdrawal, and then he was helping her to her feet as she gasped and spluttered. When she finally managed to meet his eyes, he looked positively shocked. Hermione staggered backward and sat back down, asking,

"Was that good?"

Tom eyed her with what could only be described as fierce admiration. Then he collected himself and swallowed thickly, and he nodded. "Yes, Hermione," he mumbled. "That was... quite good."

* * *

 _November 1944_

By mid-November, Tom had determined that he had spent months underestimating Hermione. She had successfully aided him in Conjuring a fully-formed corporeal Patronus - a hawk. She had become so skilled at Occlumency that he was usually unable to get into her mind without giving himself an awful headache afterward. And he had spent the past five days teaching her his unassisted flight technique, which she had mastered so successfully that she could now fly faster than Tom himself. That might have made him rather cross, except that he felt more confident about attacking Grindelwald knowing what Hermione could do.

"After… you know," Hermione began one evening as they walked back from the Black Lake in the frigid night air, "After Grindelwald is gone, how do you intend on proving it? How do you intend on capitalising on what you've done?"

It was a shockingly cold-hearted question from a girl like Hermione, and Tom eyed her for a long moment, impressed. He stepped carefully over a rock on the ground and said simply, "I shall take his wand as a trophy. Dumbledore undoubtedly knows what Grindelwald's wand looks like. When I come back to Britain with Grindelwald's wand in my hand, and it becomes known that he's been found dead in his own fortress… well, the news will just spread itself, I think."

Hermione had been silent the rest of the way to the castle after that. Tom had heard, in recent weeks, of several atrocities committed by Grindelwald's forces on the Continent. No fewer than three full families and seventeen individuals had been murdered, just in the past several weeks. Grindelwald's forces appeared to be taking full advantage of the chaos caused in Europe by the Muggle war, and they were taking every opportunity they could to slaughter opponents.

The _Daily Prophet_ reported that many British witches and wizards had beseeched the Ministry to intervene - whether in a diplomatic capacity or otherwise. Many others had made a personal appeal to Albus Dumbledore to confront his old friend and put a stop to the madness. But nothing had happened. The Ministry of Magic had declared that its hands were tied on the matter, that it was a conflict on foreign soil but that they had been in touch with European Ministries wherever possible. Dumbledore, for his part, had been publicly (and very conspicuously) silent.

Tom Riddle loved it all. Perhaps not the murdered families - he knew nothing about them and thought their deaths were probably regrettable wastes. But he knew that his personal victory at Nurmengard would seem infinitely more significant if Grindelwald appeared worse ahead of time. That way, Tom figured, he would truly be a hero, a legend. Powerful.

Tom and Hermione split up to do their night rounds, but only after exchanging a few murmured words and a brief kiss. Hermione made her way up toward Gryffindor Tower to check that all were in for curfew, whilst Tom descended to the dungeons.

He entered the Slytherin Common Room and was surprised to see a large cluster of students gathered round the fireplace. He scowled and barked firmly,

"It's well after curfew, I'm afraid."

Their heads turned round and their eyes went wide, and one by one they flew to their feet. Tom paused in his steps, curious as to what exactly was happening. He made a quick mental note of precisely who was present. Mulciber, Nott, Avery, Malfoy, Lestrange, and Dolohov had gathered by the hearth. There were a few younger boys, too - Shylock Crabbe and Julius Yaxley. Orion Black was notably absent, though his cousin Cygnus stood beside Druella Rosier in front of the divan.

Tom tipped his chin up and asked imperiously, "Have I missed something?"

Abraxas Malfoy took a timid step forward and held out a parchment to Tom. He bowed a bit and murmured, "My Lord," which made Tom flinch with pleased surprise. Malfoy's hand shook, Tom noticed as he snatched the paper away. He skimmed his eyes over the parchment and struggled to maintain a lack of emotion upon his face. He raised his eyes and looked over the group.

"And you've all signed, have you?" he asked coldly. One by one, they nodded. Tom looked back down to the paper and read it again.

 _THE KNIGHTS OF WALPURGIS - We, the undersigned, do with our names and blood give most solemn allegiance to the Dark Lord and his Cause. Let us be forever bound to his service, condemned to death should we betray him. We make this promise for the preservation and advancement of wizard-kind the world over._

Below the proclamation, there was a list of signatures, and beside each signature was a bloody fingerprint. Tom studied the parchment for a long while. He very carefully rolled it up and tucked it into his robes, and he looked upon the assembled group. They were staring at him with wide-eyed expectation, as if they were waiting for him to make some sort of inspired speech. Suddenly Tom was felt high, as though he were soaring over the lake again. He cleared his throat softly and said in a confident voice,

"My friends, you honour me with your demonstration of loyalty. I shall not soon forget who it is that stands before me. When I have conquered Grindelwald, when I return in triumph and others grapple at my feet for favours and friendship... I shall not forget your faces. You, each of you, will have been the first, the most true. And you will be aptly rewarded."

They all looked very pleased with Tom's words, their chests puffing up and their faces curling into wide grins. Druella Rosier reached for Cygnus Black's hand and clutched it, appearing a bit overcome with emotion. Tom moved to circle around the group, shaking each hand firmly as he continued,

"But you must remember, my friends, that for the next few months we are subject to the tyranny of youth. Our Cause may be threatened by excessive ceremony or conspicuous humility. So, I beseech you to continue to refer to me simply as 'Tom,' for the time being... at least in the presence we have not yet converted."

He bid them all goodnight and reminded them of the hour, and watched as they filed into the Slytherin dormitories. Then Tom stood alone in the Common Room for a long moment before briskly making his way back to the Armoury Corridor.

He felt vindicated. He felt as though he were finally getting revenge for the childhood he'd spent as a fish out of water, as an unwanted creature in a prison for children. He felt as though the primal ache for power and admiration, the longing for authority which had always been so insistent within him, would finally be properly fed.

He glanced down the Armoury Corridor and saw that it was empty, but he knew that Hermione must be finished with her rounds by now. He knocked quietly upon her door, but there was no answer. He frowned and knocked again, waiting a long while as his frustration began to drown out the elation he'd felt. He knew her door was warded to admit only her. Figuring it was worth at least one attempt, Tom pulled out his wand and said the incantation he remembered Hermione saying when she'd entered.

" _Recludo cubiculum_ ," he murmured. When the door swung open, Tom wondered if someone had slipped him a bottle of Felix Felices. The entire night seemed to be going his way. He called out for Hermione in a gentle voice, hesitant to enter her room uninvited.

There was no answer, though he could hear the soft whoosh of her shower running. Tom felt a tightening in his trousers as he stepped into the room and shut the door behind him. It was a bit much to be standing where he was, a manifesto of followers tucked in his robe, while Hermione showered just a few feet away. He contemplated barging into her shower naked and joining in, but then quickly realised that would be uncouth.

So he paced anxiously, pulling the rolled parchment from his robe and rubbing the pad of his finger over it a few times. Finally, the shower stopped. Then Tom froze when he heard the gentle noise coming from the bathroom.

She was _humming_. Hermione Granger was humming, quietly and sweetly, and for some reason it made Tom so anxiously aroused that he stalked rapidly toward the bathroom. He flung open the door and heard her shriek in terror, saw her reach for her wand. He Disarmed her at once and her wand flew into his hand. Tom set the wands and the scroll down on the ledge beneath her mirror and turned to see that Hermione was scowling ferociously at him.

"Dont... _ever_... surprise a woman like that, Tom!" she panted angrily, clutching her towel more tightly around her dripping form. Tom ignored her, his trousers now uncomfortably tight as he studied the way her hair fell around her face in wet clumps, the way her bare face was dewy and glowed in the lamplight. Suddenly his body was moving of its own accord and he was tearing the towel from her, tossing it aside as he pushed her against the tile wall and crushed her mouth with a kiss. He ground his erection against her belly and Hermione moaned into his mouth, abruptly letting go of her shocked indignation. She started egging him on then, reaching for his waist and arranging him so that the lump in his trousers ground right upon the nub of her womanhood.

Tom's cock ached, screaming to be set free and plunged into her, but he was so high with arousal and power that he had no time for that. He kissed Hermione again and finished in his trousers before he knew what was happening. He bucked his hips a few more times, and Hermione went limp against the wall as she found her own release from the friction.

There was a rather awkward moment then as Tom's ears buzzed and he reached with a shaking hand for his wand. His cheeks coloured a bit as he nonverbally cleaned up his trousers, and then he turned to see that Hermione had taken her own wand from the ledge, along with the rolled parchment. He watched her unfurl it, and he did not stop her. She flicked her eyes up to him after she read it in silence, and her face was very serious.

She bent and picked up her towel, wordlessly wrapped it around her torso, and walked briskly from the bathroom. Tom followed her out into her room, worried that she was going to tear the parchment to bits. He knew how she'd felt about his aspirations for personal power, at least in her previous life.

So he was rather surprised when she sat down at her desk, dipped a quill in ink, and signed her name to the parchment. She used her wand to siphon a drop of blood from one thumb, and she pressed it to the page.

She held up the parchment to Tom, and he took it with a reverent bow of his head.

"My Lady," he acknowledged, and her lips curled up into a smirk.


	7. Chapter 7

_December, 1944_

Hermione pored through the enormous book before her, searching for the chapter on 15th century persecution of 'witchcraft.' Finally locating the chapter she wanted, Hermione sighed as she read and then scratched a summary onto her History of Magic parchment.

' _One common 'protective' measure at the time was to insist that accused witches and wizards enter a courtroom backward. Many Muggles believed this would prevent them from applying Magical curses. Obviously, most accused 'witches' and 'wizards' at the time were nothing of the sort, but rather social outcasts blamed for mundane illnesses, deaths, and crop failures. The Magical community encouraged Muggle misconceptions about magic, since it allowed them to -'_

"Oh, for goodness' sake!"

Betty Cattermole huffed in anger as she flipped madly through a book on centaur-wizarding relations in history. She growled and flipped faster, and was promptly treated to a loud shush from the librarian. Betty scowled and exclaimed in a frantic whisper, "The damned cursed book has Vanished its own text! Stupid, worthless…"

"Good afternoon, ladies."

Betty gasped and jumped in her seat, her cheeks colouring with embarrassment for her behaviour as soon as she realised who had walked up to their table. Hermione smiled mildly up at the two boys beside them.

"Hello, Tom. Abraxas."

Abraxas Malfoy stood one pace behind Tom and a bit to his left, in what was clearly a subservient position. Hermione frowned a bit, unsure of how to feel about the evident power dynamic between the boys. _Not difficult to see the Alpha male in this pack,_ she thought acerbically.

"We were just writing our History of Magic essays," Hermione said. Then, glancing across the table, she added, "Poor Betty's just lost her source material. The book's text disappeared."

"Here. Let me see it." Tom took the book from the table and flicked through the pages, sniffing lightly as he seemed to be diagnosing a problem.

"It's no use," Betty lamented. "It must be cursed to Vanish its own writing when a person 'mistreats' it. I admit I was a bit rough with the binding, but -"

" _Legiverbum_." Tom interrupted Betty with a casual incantation, dusting the tip of his yew wand over the pages before him. Hermione craned her neck to see that the illuminated text of the book dissolved back into visibility, as though suctioned forth from the page by Tom's spell. Hermione furrowed her brow; she had never heard the incantation he'd said before. She wondered for a brief moment whether Tom had made it up himself.

"Oh, brilliant!" Betty grinned from ear to ear as she gratefully took the book back from Tom, who nodded distractedly before jerking his head a bit toward Abraxas. Hermione noticed that Abraxas looked rather shy all of a sudden, and that he was staring at Betty with what could only be described as admiration. Tom said lightly,

"Miss Cattermole, since Mr Malfoy is far too great a gentleman to be so forward as to ask you himself… might you care to accompany Abraxas here on a walk about the grounds?"

"First snow of the season, and all," Abraxas mumbled, casting his pale eyes to the ground. Hermione felt her mouth drop open in pleased surprise as she flicked her eyes back and forth between Betty and Abraxas. She tried to conceal her happy smile and attempted to look only mildly interested as Betty answered,

"Oh… I - I would like that, Mr Malfoy. Thank you. I just need a moment to pack up my things and return my books."

"Allow me to shelve the books for you," Abraxas offered, and Betty blushed a deep scarlet as he bowed his head and took her materials back to the shelves. Hermione wondered as Betty packed up her rucksack when the girl intended on writing her essay. She decided it was none of her business how Betty delegated her study time. She and Tom bid the two others farewell as they strode awkwardly from the library, speaking in low and formal voices.

Tom sat at the table opposite Hermione and smirked, apparently rather amused.

"Did you tell Abraxas to do that just so that you could pull me away from the library?" Hermione scolded him, but Tom licked his bottom lip and shook his head. He drummed his fingertips upon the wood table and then flicked his wand a bit, murmuring a silencing spell around the table. Hermione frowned curiously, and then Tom said to her, "Abraxas' uncle - Neptunus Malfoy - has been kind enough to send along some rather valuable information about Nurmengard. Neptunus has apparently been privy to visit the place no fewer than three times, and so he knows the layout well, along with its defences."

Hermione felt her stomach churn a bit. For the past month, she and Tom had conducted a great deal of training and preparation for their 'visit' to Grindelwald. Hermione had, one evening, asked Tom to reconsider the entire thing, and he'd grown quite cross. They'd argued for a few days until Tom managed to convince Hermione of the necessity of the attack.

Dumbledore and Grindelwald would never actually _kill_ one another, Tom argued. They had been close - very close - as youths. Tom insisted that Dumbledore would only go so far as to seek the imprisonment of Grindelwald, whilst Grindelwald himself would likely be unable to muster the proper vitriol to actually cast an effective Killing Curse at Dumbledore in a duel. Therefore, Tom argued, he had three choices.

First, he could allow Grindelwald to continue his campaign - which, he said, was disorganized and ruthless in the pursuit of its nebulous goals. Tom reminded Hermione of how many Muggles and wizards had been killed thus far by Grindelwald, and that he was only growing stronger by the day.

Second, he could permit Albus Dumbledore to attack Grindelwald, likely leading to the latter's imprisonment and lifelong vilification. This choice, Tom asserted, was undesirable because it served to draw an artificially clear line between 'good' and 'evil' by defining all Dark Arts and Dark wizards as wholly undesirable. Hermione had difficulty arguing this point; by the time she'd lived in the 1990s, the public considered Dumbledore a beacon of the 'light,' whilst all Dark wizards had historically grown more vicious as they felt cornered. Hermione reminded herself that part of her goal in this existence was to temper some of Tom's inherent Darkness and steer the course of his ambition toward a less ruthless path than she'd seen of him in 'her' time.

The final choice, Tom said, was to eliminate Grindelwald himself and take his place as the preeminent Dark wizard of the time. They had similar goals, she knew; both Tom and Grindelwald desired the magnification of wizardkind as well as its purification. Hermione knew that here, too, she might be able to eventually inject a touch of reason into Tom's mentalities and ambitions. She knew that if Grindelwald were 'the' Dark wizard, she would be unable to control the madness. With Tom, though…

So she had stopped fighting him on the matter, on the condition that it be only the two of them to go. She did not want the affair to turn into a slaughter of the Slytherin boys, no matter how thick-headed some of them were. Now, sitting in the library across the table from Tom, she felt a twist of nervousness as she realised their intended striking date was drawing so near.

"Nurmengard serves as both Grindelwald's prison for his enemies and as his own fortress," Tom was saying. "It is, apparently, guarded by no fewer than three dozen wizards at any time, as well as an army of Inferi crafted from the corpses of… former… prisoners."

Hermione felt bile rise in her throat. She had, of course, contemplated the idea that Grindelwald's fortress would contain a great many modes of protection. She knew, for example, that it was Unplottable and surrounded by anti-Apparition charms, just like Hogwarts. She had expected there to be guards, too, obviously. But an army of Inferi? She let out a shaky sigh and nodded resolutely.

"Fire, then," she said in a strangely calm voice.

Tom smirked again and said, "Yes. We shall need a great deal of fire. And we're going to go there by Portkey - well, at least to the forest nearby. Neptunus Malfoy is going to plant one Portkey in the trees a few hundred yards from the ground. The other Portkey will be waiting for us in a room at the Leaky Cauldron when we arrive there for the Christmas holidays."

Hermione nodded again, struggling to swallow the terrible lump in her throat so that she could ask softly, "And… what day are we to go there? To Nurmengard, I mean."

Tom blinked slowly and gave her a peaceful expression. "The thirty-first," he pronounced. "I know I had said I wanted to be there by Christmas. But if all goes according to plan, then the precise shall prove itself to be rather important, as it will be remembered in perpetuity. So, I have decided upon the thirty-first of this month."

Hermione laughed rather bitterly and nodded. "Your birthday."

"That's right."

"What a fine birthday gift to yourself," she said, feeling her eyes burn as she wrestled with her own scruples. "The wand of Gellert Grindelwald."

Tom nodded again. "And the look on Albus Dumbledore's face when I show it to him."

* * *

 _December, 1954_

Lord Voldemort scowled out the window at the brilliant sunshine. The unseasonably mild weather outside did not mesh properly with his mood. He'd learned three days earlier that the Ministry of Magic had put out a warrant for his arrest, owing to his capture and interrogation of Auror Maggie Prewett. He'd ordered Maggie released back to the Ministry weeks earlier, in exchange for three of his own men being held at Azkaban. Hermione had orchestrated all of that, for which he was enormously grateful. Nonetheless, the Ministry had gone back on its word and refused the amnesty they'd promised. There were open warrants for Voldemort, for Hermione, and for Abraxas Malfoy, all three of whom were deemed particularly guilty or complacent in the 'Prewett Affair,' as the _Daily Prophet_ insisted upon calling it.

So they'd decided to hole up at the Regia, and Voldemort had decided to move more insistently with his mission of undermining the Ministry. He had spies in place, of course, and subversive moles. But the change, the overhaul, needed to happen sooner rather than later.

As he stared into the blazingly sunny day and thought through the mess, Voldemort heard a light rapping upon his office door. He was about to grant admission to the visitor, but then the door creaked slowly open.

"Good afternoon, Hermione," Voldemort said rather bitterly, still staring out the window. He knew it was her, for she was the only one who entered his office without his permission. He turned round and faced her, noticing that she looked exceedingly tired. She sighed heavily and shut the door behind her, moving to sit in the chair opposite Voldemort's desk. Sensing some urgency from her, he pulled out his own chair and said rather acerbically, "Would you care for some tea?"

Hermione scowled but said, "Since you've offered… yes. I'm positively knackered; I've not slept in two solid days. Wine would be wonderful. Thank you."

"I said 'tea,'" Voldemort corrected her, raising his eyebrows. She swallowed heavily and looked very deliberately up at him, the dark circles under her eyes suddenly more apparent.

" _Wine_ would be wonderful. Thank you," she said again. Voldemort gave her a conciliatory nod and poured her a goblet of elf-made wine from the little table behind him. Hermione drank deeply from it, and Voldemort waited a moment before asking delicately,

"Where is Georgiana?"

"I've sent her to stay with the Notts" Hermione said quietly, her eyes shimmering abruptly as they filled with tears. She dragged her fingertip around the rim of her goblet and said, "She left this morning."

"It is much better for here there than here," Voldemort said gently, and he watched Hermione nod with a hesitant face. Voldemort reached across to steady her trembling hand, and he said, "We shall bring Georgie home when it is safe to do so. I fear that Maggie Prewett will come to deeply regret ever making an enemy of you."

Hermione gave a bitter little snort then, and she drank the rest of the elf-made wine. "On the subject of old friends," she said smoothly, "I have a much happier bit of news. Betty's had the baby. He was born quite early this morning. Abraxas already adores the boy."

Voldemort tried to sound interested as he asked lightly, "And what have they decided to call the child?"

"Lucius," Hermione said, "after his ancestor. He's got hair already, blonde just like the both of them."

"Hm." Voldemort was distracted and didn't much care about the miniature Malfoy, but he nodded and said just the same, "Give them my regards, will you?"

"Of course." Hermione put her empty goblet upon Voldemort's desk and rose from her chair, turning to go without another word. As she put her hand upon the doorknob, Voldemort said rather softly,

"Hermione."

She turned back, and Voldemort felt a clutch in his chest to see the exhaustion clearly wracking her. It had broken her heart to send Georgie away, he knew. But it would keep the little child safe to have her stay elsewhere, at least until Voldemort could erase the threat on the Regia. If nothing else, Georgiana's life gave him enormous motivation to move more quickly on the overthrow of the Ministry.

Hermione raised her eyebrows at Tom, her face impassive as her hand stilled upon the doorknob. He cleared his throat gently and asked,

"Tomorrow… have you any desire to… that is, I wonder if you would be so good as to join me for a private dinner and an evening entirely excused from… all of this." He gestured to his desk, to the little piles of paperwork, and he hoped she knew what he meant. To clarify his intentions, he said, "Ten years. Rather a significant point, I should think."

She nodded and gave him a little smile, though her eyes stayed sad. "Ten years," she repeated. Then, after a moment, she sighed and said, "Of course I should like the time with you, even given the rather bleak circumstances."

Voldemort was frustrated by the despair he sensed rolling off of her in waves. Knowing he was powerless against her grief in sending Georgiana away, he rose and walked to her, hoping he could at least give her reassurance. He reached to cup her jaw in his hand and felt her lean against his palm. She shut her eyes, and Voldemort murmured,

"I love you more today than I did yesterday. And I shall love you even more tomorrow."

* * *

 _December, 1944_

Tom lay awake in his bed and stared at the ceiling. He had encountered a great deal of trouble as of late when it came to sleeping. The past few nights, his mind had been so preoccupied with one particular matter that he had been utterly unable to relax. When he managed to briefly drift off to sleep, he was plagued with nightmarish visions that haunted him upon waking. He was unwilling to take draughts or potions to sleep, for he knew that the concerns he had were real and valid. Better to address them directly, he thought, than to induce sleep artificially whilst leaving problems unsolved.

He huffed with frustration as he swung his legs off of his bed and stood. He padded barefoot across his room and pulled his emerald dressing-gown from his wardrobe. He cinched the belt around his waist and snatched his wand from his bedside table, and then he slipped out of his bedroom door. He looked carefully up and down the corridor. Seeing no one, he stalked down toward Hermione's room and paused outside her door. He could undo her wards, he knew, and enter without issue. But he worried that to do so would frighten and alarm Hermione, or possibly make her feel he'd invaded her private space.

Of course, though, he couldn't knock upon the door at this hour. And he _had_ , he reminded himself, entered her room without permission before. She hadn't seemed cross about that. He sighed and decided he had no alternative; he was not going to sleep unless he discussed a few things with her. Hopefully the conversation could be brief, and then they could both get much-needed rest.

He unwarded her door and it swung gently open. Tom held his wand out in case she attacked him out of fear, but as he slipped into the room, he heard a groggy voice crack from the bed,

"Tom?"

He smirked at the sound of his name in her sleep-muddled voice, and he padded over to her bed. He'd perhaps expected her to be sitting up pointing her wand at him in alarm, but she was still curled up against her pillow. Tom felt a clenching in his chest then, as he realised that she'd said his name in her sleep and that his entry hadn't woken her. Tom pulled off his dressing gown and tossed it over her floorboard, setting his wand carefully upon the table beside her bed. Then he climbed carefully beneath her sheets, wondering whether he was going to meet a nasty hex once she realised he was in her bed without asking.

But then she rolled over, and her eyes cracked open. Even in the darkness, Tom could see her lips curl up a bit, and she whispered, "Who told you that you could come in here?"

"No one did," Tom admitted. "I thought perhaps you wouldn't mind. I need to discuss something with you."

That seemed to wake Hermione up properly, and she sat up beside him. He watched her frown and reach for her wand, and then she illuminated the lamp upon her wall and the space was bathed in a dim glow. Hermione turned to Tom and rubbed her eyes, asking in a croak,

"What's the matter, Tom?"

He carefully considered what he wanted to say. Suddenly rather overcome with inexplicable nervousness, he licked his bottom lip and mumbled, "I would very much prefer it if we were married before we go to Nurmengard."

Hermione looked concerned, and she crumpled her brows and raked her fingers through her hair until they snarled in her frizzy nighttime tangles. She huffed a bit and asked simply, "Why?"

Tom hadn't exactly expected that response. ' _No,'_ he'd expected, or perhaps a grudging acceptance. But he had rather failed to consider being required to explain himself as thoroughly as he now thought he'd have to do.

He could tell Hermione that it was for her protection that he wanted to marry her straight away. He could tell her that it was a matter of maintaining status among his followers. He could tell her any number of excuses that weren't true, but instead he told her the truth. He stared at her tired face and thought for a brief moment that she was very pretty even after being rudely awakened from sleep. Then he looked her square in the eye and said firmly,

"If anything should happen... if anything should go wrong... I would much prefer to die as your husband than as your intended."

A little look of horror crossed Hermione's face then, and she pinched her lips into a straight line. "Nothing's going to happen to you," she insisted, but Tom gave her an impatient sigh and rolled his eyes.

"You don't know that," he told her. "This hasn't happened to you yet, remember? So, please, Hermione... fight alongside me as my wife, will you?"

She chewed her bottom lip a bit and scowled, "Everyone will think I've fallen pregnant, you know," she told him.

Tom shrugged. He'd thought of that, of course. "Then let's not tell any of them until afterward."

Hermione cocked an eyebrow, seemingly surprised by the suggestion of a semi-private elopement rather than an actual wedding. Tom had thought of that, too; he had worried a bit about whether his followers might take offence at not being invited to the wedding of the Dark Lord. But then it had occurred to him that it would be grossly inappropriate to demonstrate emotion before them, to debase himself so publicly. If he felt anything at his wedding, it was for Hermione alone to witness.

"What, then?" she was asking him. She shrugged and said helplessly, "I suppose the only option would be a binding by Magical handfasting. As far as I know, it's the only Magical marriage rite widely recognised which does not require any witnesses."

Tom nodded firmly. He'd considered all their options. He did not wish for anyone to know of their marriage until after Nurmengard. The benefit to a Magical handfasting was that it produced indisputable evidence that the ceremony had taken place - a helix of dual-coloured ribbon which twisted in an everlasting motion. Tom and Hermione, he figured, could carry out the handfasting whenever they pleased and hand over the cord to the Ministry after Nurmengard. Then, as Tom basked in his victory, he could declare Hermione his wife. In the case that something happened to him, Hermione would have the cord to ensure that it was known they'd been wed.

"I understand, of course," he said graciously, "if you would prefer a more... traditional... ceremony, but -"

"There is nothing more traditional in the wizarding than a private handfasting," Hermione reminded him. "The practise dates back nearly two thousand years. I think that being married that way adheres just fine to tradition."

He nodded, pleased that she'd agreed to his plan. "When, then?" he asked, deciding to let her choose the date for the handfasting, so long as it was within the next three-and-a-half weeks.

Hermione glanced toward her bathroom. "I think I should prefer to shower and clean my teeth first, if you don't mind," she said, and Tom was rather taken aback.

"Tonight?" he asked in mild disbelief, and Hermione nodded emphatically.

"If it's to be private," she said, "then there's no use in delaying, is there?"

Tom felt his mouth curl up crookedly as he admitted, "No. I suppose not."

"Why don't you go clean yourself up a bit?" Hermione suggested, and Tom felt his cheeks colour at her suggestion that he was dirty. But then she said, "I shall do the same. Meet me back here in twenty minutes or so."

Tom glanced at the clock on Hermione's mantle and reminded her, "It's nearly three in the morning, you know."

"Yes. Well, then, I suppose the date shall technically be the fourth." Hermione matter-of-factly rose from the bed, and Tom marveled at her efficient disposal of emotion. "Twenty minutes?" she asked again, and Tom nodded. Hermione disappeared into her bathroom, and Tom slipped out of her room again, feeling his stomach flutter a bit as he did.

* * *

 _December, 1944_

Hermione turned off her shower, patted dry her hair, and cast a Drying Charm upon it with her wand. Her hand trembled a bit as she did. She was relieved, in a way, that Tom had provided an opportunity for her to escape the grand wedding that so many might have expected after their high-profile engagement. But Hermione had rather been dreading all the pomp, if she was honest. This all seemed better; it felt _right_ that she and Tom should marry by their own power, without needing to put on a great show.

None of that alleviated the nervousness coursing through her as she cleaned her teeth. None of that made it any easier to button up the cream-coloured cotton dress she yanked on - the closest thing she had to bridal white. She popped on a pair of shoes, not paying much attention to which ones, and made a vague attempt to tame her hair. But then she heard her door open and shut quietly, and she trotted out of her bathroom with her wand in her hand. Tom stood in the middle of the room rather awkwardly, his left hand clutching a little bunch of lilacs and his right hand fiddling with his wand.

"You put on a suit," Hermione noted with a bit of surprise. She suddenly felt underdressed in her casual dress. "Perhaps I should put on something better."

She started to walk toward her wardrobe, but then she felt a gentle tug on her wrist and turned round to find herself looking up into Tom's face. There was a hunger in his dark eyes as he shook his head and insisted, "You could have married me in your pyjamas, Hermione, and you would still be beautiful. Leave the dress; it won't be on you for long, anyway."

Hermione felt a sudden surge of want for him - physically, of course, for he smelled of himself in the most delicious way imaginable. But she also wanted for him to be her husband just then, more than she'd wanted it before.

"Come here, will you?" Tom pulled her gently away from the wardrobe and cast a fire into her hearth, urging her to stand in the centre of the room with him. He handed over the lilacs he was holding and murmured gently, "I never thought I'd Conjure so many flowers as I've done in the past eight months. I've become rather an expert Conjurer of flowers. They're getting better each time, I think. So perhaps by the time you're an old woman, I shall be giving you the most beautiful lilacs there have ever been."

Hermione felt her breath hitch in her throat. She took the flowers from Tom and whispered, " _These_ are, to me, the most beautiful lilacs there have ever been." She set the lilacs upon the little table beside her bed and walked back toward him.

He stared at her for a while then, with an unreadable flicker in his eyes. She finally cleared her throat and asked, "Would you care to go first, or shall I?"

"You know how to do it?" Tom asked. Hermione shifted upon her feet and admitted,

"Only what I've read in books, of course. But I think I shall do fine."

"You begin, then." Tom bowed his head and took a small step back from her. He held out his left hand, and Hermione grasped it firmly with her own.

She pointed her wand at their hands and tried to steady her voice as she remembered the basic tenets of a Magical handfasting. _Heart, body, and soul_ , she reminded herself, remembering what she'd read. Finally, she spoke, meeting Tom's gaze as she did.

"With all my heart, I bind myself to you. I entrust to you my fears and my longings, my hopes and my dreams, my joy and my grief. With all of my body, I bind myself to you. I entrust to you my dignity and my desire, my illness and my good health, my youth and my old age. With all of my soul, I bind myself to you. I entrust to you my goodness and my wickedness, my compassion and my determination, my life and my death. To you, Tom Marvolo Riddle, I bind myself from this moment forward, with rejoicing completely in the love that we share."

A thin twine of silver began to wind itself from the tip of Hermione's wand. The ethereal ribbon cast itself round Tom's wrist, over their hands, and up Hermione's arm. Hermione nodded at Tom, and he swallowed visibly as he gave her a witheringly handsome smirk. He licked his dry lips and cleared his throat, sounding rather humbled as he said,

"With all my heart, I bind myself to you. I entrust to you my warmth and my coldness, my ambitions and my concessions, my joy and my grief. With all of my body, I bind myself to you. I entrust to you my flesh and my blood, my strength and my weakness, my youth and my old age. With all of my soul, I bind myself to you. I entrust to you my Darkness and light, my triumphs and my regrets, my life and my death. To you, Hermione Jean Granger, I bind myself from this moment forward, with great hopeful gratitude for the life we shall share."

Hermione could not stop the tears that silently left her eyes and cascaded down her cheeks as Tom's wand produced a winding twine of emerald ribbon. It twisted round their hands, as hers had done, and then they were knotted together firmly. Hermione looked up at Tom and said carefully,

"And now you kiss me."

He nodded. "And now I kiss you."

He dropped his wand and it fell to the floor. Tom used his right hand to cup Hermione's cheek and lowered his face to hers. At first, he just gave her a gentle brush of his lips. Then, with a shaking breath, he kissed her more firmly, and she felt nearly overwhelmed by how much she adored him. This prompted the ribbons to release from their hands and twirl together into a round, swirling helix of ribbon. Hermione used her wand to direct the circle of ribbon to the table beside her bed, where it lay alongside the lilacs. She looked back to Tom and realised they were still clutching hands. Without releasing him, she pulled gently toward her bed, and he willingly followed.

A few hours later, as she lay curled up against his naked body, she heard him say, "Thank you, Hermione. For marrying me. I am… I am glad."

She chuckled quietly and looked up to see his dark eyes flash. She reached up and dragged her fingertips over his scruffy jaw, badly in need of a morning shave.

"I confess I came to your room tonight because I was having difficulty sleeping," Tom continued. He brushed his fingertips down Hermione's arm, and she shivered a bit. "I ought to have known that coming to your room wouldn't lead to sleep."

"No. It led to you becoming my husband," Hermione reminded him. "We can sleep when we're tired of this."

She gestured to the way they were curled up without clothing, and she heard Tom scoff,

"I don't think I shall ever grow tired of this." There was a quiet pause, and then he said, "I wouldn't be as confident, you know… going to Nurmengard with anyone else."

Hermione rolled her eyes at him. "You would be successful, Tom, even if you went alone."

"Perhaps," Tom shrugged haughtily. He kissed Hermione's forehead and murmured, "But I should think my odds will be greatly improved by your presence."

Hermione shut her eyes and tried to return her brain to a sense of positivity. "Do you love me, Tom?" she asked, wanting to hear him say it.

He pulled her a bit closer, and sighed as he seemed to consider his answer. Hermione was a bit anxious about his silence at last until he replied,

"I love you more today than I did yesterday. And I shall love you even more tomorrow."

* * *

 _31_ _December, 1944_

 _7:30 GMT_

Hermione stared out the window of the room she'd rented with Tom at the Three Broomsticks. The icy rain outside lashed the windows fiercely, and they shivered and shook with the force of the wind. Hermione, on instinct, pressed her palm to the rippled glass as if to still it, and she shut her eyes as she reflected upon the past several weeks.

She'd married Tom Riddle on the fourth of December, and since then he'd only laid hands upon her a few times. No one but the two of them knew the truth. In a great many ways, Hermione did not feel married. Indeed, the realisation that she _was_ married was often the cause of a bit of bemused contemplation. At times, she'd stared at Tom as he walked into a classroom, thinking, _Ah! Here comes my beloved husband._ She would laugh to herself then, and Betty or Maggie would inquire as to what was so funny.

Never in Hermione's life had she failed to devote her fullest attention to final exams. This term, however, her mind had been at Nurmengard, and she had not revised nearly as much as she would otherwise have done. She'd passed all her exams with flying colours, of course, though she'd felt a bit derelict of academic duty. Tom had seemed as though he hadn't cared to revise at all, though it appeared to Hermione as if he simply did not have to _try_ to be brilliant. He simply _was._

On the Hogwarts Express back to London for Christmas holidays, Hermione and Tom had patrolled the cars a few times before settling into the Prefects' carriage. They'd met briefly with Tom's inner circle on the train, for many of them were Slytherin Prefects. Vague plans for Nurmengard had been discussed, but Tom had insisted to Hermione that most of their information remain private. They'd settled into a private compartment then, and Hermione had gazed out at the countryside whizzing by and murmured,

"Everything will be different."

"Better," Tom had corrected her rather sharply, and Hermione had frowned at him. Tom had raised his eyebrows and said again, "Everything will be better."

"For _you_ ," Hermione had scoffed, and she'd leaned on her elbow as she stared solemnly out the window.

"For everyone who matters," Tom had insisted, and Hermione had wondered who exactly it was that mattered to Tom. Before she could demand that of him, he'd pulled out a rolled parchment from his robes and had handed it over to Hermione. Curiously, she had unfurled it and had seen that it was his manifest of Knights of Walpurgis - the Hogwarts students who had sworn loyalty to Tom.

"I've seen this," she reminded him coolly, and she'd started to hand it back over to him. Tom had gently pushed her hand back and eyed her rather oddly as he'd said,

"There is one name missing. From the bottom of the page."

Hermione had read through the names again, and she'd realised he'd erased her own signature and thumbprint from the parchment. Feeling rather offended, she had scowled up at him and opened her mouth to protest. But Tom had sniffed and looked away from her, out the window.

"You are not my subordinate," Tom had said rather tightly, gnawing upon his bottom lip. "You are my wife."

Christmas had passed with little fanfare at the Three Broomsticks. There had been carols and ale and roast meat served in the tavern, and upstairs Hermione had exchanged a chaste kiss or two with Tom and wished him a Happy Christmas. But their minds had been on Grindelwald - Tom's filled with hunger for the events to come, and Hermione's filled with trepidation. The next several days had been spent quietly reading before the fireplace, discussing tactics and plans, and eating solemnly downstairs for meals. Hermione had made a few quick trips to stores in Diagon Alley, but she and Tom had stayed mostly holed up over the holidays.

Their time together had been quiet and contemplative and not at all physical. But Hermione felt a strong ache in her chest when she considered the danger Tom would be in at Nurmengard. She loved him, she knew, and she would be devastated to lose him. Even if it had been in the pursuit of personal power - an aspiration she still did not entirely support - his demise would cripple her soul.

She pulled her hand away from the chilled window and sighed, taking a little step back from the window as a fresh gale of wind ripped its way through the streets. The rattling and howling woke Tom, who stirred in the bed behind Hermione. She resolutely stared forward, listening carefully to the pad of his feet upon the wooden floorboards as he rose and strode toward her. She saw the translucent reflection of his face in the glass as he stepped up behind her, saw the way he dropped his face to plant a gentle kiss in the crook of her neck. Hermione shivered and swallowed heavily, holding up a small bottle and still staring out the window as she whispered,

"Happy birthday, Tom."

He sighed through his nose and took the little bottle from her, and then he mumbled groggily, "Felix Felicis?"

Hermione nodded, turning round to face Tom. Her knees went a bit weak at the sight of his messy hair, his bare shoulders and arms and chest, the way his dark eyes still looked mired in sleep. She reached out impulsively and brushed her fingertips near the spot where she knew his heart was.

"It's enough to make you successful in anything you do for the next twenty-four hours of so," she informed him.

Tom licked his bottom lip and nodded a bit. "Thank you," he whispered. But then he held the little bottle out to Hermione and insisted, "I want you to take it."

Hermione gave him a withering look and demanded, "Why would I need luck, Tom Riddle, when I shall be fighting with you?"

Tom smiled a bit and said thoughtfully, "There's enough for each of us for twelve hours. I do not intend on this mission taking any longer than that. We leave with the Portkey in about an hour and a half. I propose that we each take half."

Hermione had spent nearly every Galleon she had on the Felix Felicis in the potion supplies shop on Diagon Alley. She'd purchased it after Transfiguring a few of her features, and she'd given a false name to the shopkeep. She did not want anyone, after today, believing that Tom Riddle only defeated Grindelwald because he'd had Liquid Luck. Even she thought they would probably be successful without the potion, but it seemed wise not to take any chances.

Hermione nodded at Tom, and he held the little bottle out further to her. "After you," he said firmly, and Hermione let out a shaky sigh before uncorking the bottle. She carefully tipped about half the contents of the bottle into her mouth, noticing the potion's sickly, cloying sweetness. She sputtered a bit but swallowed, and then she handed the little bottle back to Tom. He drank the remainder of the potion quickly and Vanished the bottle with his wand.

They stood in silence for a minute then, and Hermione finally asked Tom, "Do you feel any different?"

Tom shook his head, but he noted, "I suspect one might not feel anything for a while after taking it… and, even so, the effects will be most evident in a situation where luck is actually needed."

Hermione nodded again, feeling a flutter of nerves as she realised how little time was left until they would be at Nurmengard. The nervousness never dissipated, though; it turned into a bit of giddy excitement as Hermione thought more and more about the day. A quiet corner of her mind piped up that the Felix Felicis was making her artificially confident and perky. That stray bit of consciousness was immediately quashed when Tom reached out to wrap his fingers around Hermione's jaw, brushing the pad of his thumb under her eye. He quirked up half his mouth and murmured,

"Have we enough time for me to show you how much I love you? Just in case I never get a chance again…"

Hermione laughed aloud at his tone, at the way he seemed to have suddenly become so emotional with her. That, too, was the potion, she knew. But she didn't much care. She answered him by pushing lightly upon his bare chest until he staggered backward and hit the bed. He flopped down onto his back upon the mattress, moving with an uncharacteristic lack of grace, and his crooked smile widened.

She felt drunk as she climbed to straddle him, attacking his neck with kisses and lightly drawing her fingers around his shoulders and chest. Tom groaned a bit, his own hands moving to whisk Hermione's thin nightdress off of her form. She was naked beneath her pyjamas, and as she helped wriggle out of the nightdress, her entire body was bared to him. Tom huffed with want and reached up to cup Hermione's left breast in his hand. He grazed her hardened nipple with his thumb and squeezed her breast lightly, eliciting a sharp gasp from Hermione. She instinctively drove her hips down onto him, feeling his erection through his pyjama trousers. She reached down and hooked her thumbs beneath the waistband of the trousers so that she could urge them downward, but Tom caught her wrists and shook his head.

"Not yet," he said firmly. "We've got time to play."

Hermione giggled, a bit more wildly than she normally would do, and swirled her hips gently against him again. She watched his throat bob with a gulp, watched him drive his head backward against the duvet, and she felt his hands clutch desperately at her waist. He pulled her off of him and tossed her so quickly to her back that Hermione landed with a little ' _oof!'_ of surprise. She snuggled back against the pillows and watched as Tom crawled toward her like a hunting predator.

She felt her nipples grow almost painfully hard, felt a flush of hot moisture between her legs, and she asked him in a low voice, "What exactly is it that you intend to do to me, husband?"

Tom's cheeks flushed scarlet at the way she'd asked him, and the hungry glint in his eyes sharpened. He sat back on his haunches and stared imperiously down at Hermione. Then, in a whisper that cut through the sound of the rain outside, he asked her,

"Do you trust me, Hermione?"

 _No!_ she wanted to scream, _I don't trust you. I never have and I never will. You're a frightening monster now and you will be in the future. You killed Ladon Scamander and your family and who knows who else, and today you're going to kill Gellert Grindelwald. No, Tom, I don't trust you._

She wanted to say all that, except that she would have been lying. Fool that she was, she _did_ trust him - more, at least, than she trusted anyone else in this time. If not Tom, then who? She sighed lightly and nodded up at him with reluctance.

"Yes," she whispered. "I trust you, Tom."

Tom did not react at first. Then he calmly dragged his fingertips from her jaw down over her neck and chest, pulling a fierce shiver with him as he went. Hermione squirmed and whimpered a bit, wanting far more than he was giving her.

"Do you love me?" he asked, his voice sounding dangerously relaxed. He tipped his face and met Hermione's eyes with a mischievous blend of curiosity and arousal. She felt an insistent throbbing at her sex now, and she ground her thighs against one another in a futile attempt to relieve the tension. She huffed and nodded.

"Yes. I love you."

Tom surprised her then by moving to hover over her, and he dipped his head and took her right breast into his mouth. She cried out as he suckled a bit, nibbling at her flesh and caressing her nipple with his tongue in tortuous little circles. Her hands clutched at his mussed hair and held fast, and her hips bucked instinctively.

Tom rose after a while, his expression so filled with animalistic desire that she was nearly frightened of him. But Hermione gathered her wits enough to say gently, "Tell me what you want."

"I want to feel powerful," Tom answered immediately. Hermione was momentarily taken aback by the insistence behind his answer. But she swallowed and nodded, understanding what he meant. He wanted to go to Nurmengard with Felix Felicis flowing through his veins, having dominated Hermione to motivate himself even further. He thrived on authority, she knew. He needed to feel strong, to feel unquestioned, to feel in control. He needed that today to be successful, and she needed him to succeed.

Hermione stared at his dark eyes for a moment, and then she whispered in a steady voice, "If you want to feel powerful, then show me just how powerful you can be."

"You trust me?" he asked again, and Hermione tried not to frown as she wondered why he was repeating that question. She felt a pit of anxiety in her stomach for a brief moment before the little euphoria brought on by the potion overwhelmed it.

"I trust you."

Tom petted Hermione's hair and leaned down to whisper in her ear, in a voice smooth and sweet like honey, "You are the only person in all the world who is safe from me."

Then he sat up, moved quickly to arrange his body, and was suddenly on his hands and knees forcing Hermione's knees apart. Hermione squirmed again, surprised by Tom's actions, and she reached to hold onto his shoulders. He looked up at her for a brief moment and smirked so handsomely that Hermione moaned, and then he dipped his head. She was shocked by that and stared wide-eyed down between her legs. Then suddenly she couldn't keep her eyes open and she wrenched them shut, squealing a bit when she felt the warm caress of his tongue on her womanhood.

It was heaven and she was lost in the feel of it for a long while, pushing her head back into the pillows and clutching frantically at the duvet. Tom lathed his tongue over her outer and inner lips as though he were licking ice cream, and then finally he dragged his tongue flat across her clit. Hermione twitched as if she'd been electrocuted, moaning his name as he suckled her nub for a long moment.

Then suddenly there was a different feeling as he pushed a few fingers into her and hooked them, continuing to pay attention to her entrance with his mouth. Hermione arched her back and tightened her thighs around his shoulders, chanting his name over and over like a prayer. Her whole body pulsed and tingled, and her ears began to ring as she felt a flush of heat in her veins.

"Tom, I'm going to - to..." she began, thrashing her head against the pillow and tearing her hands against the duvet. "Please don't stop now."

But Tom didn't listen. He raised his head a bit from her, just enough to give her an intense stare through half-lidded eyes. He smirked again and whispered,

"You like this?"

"Obviously!" Hermione growled, driving her hips against his fingers. The intense high that had been approaching was fading now, and Hermione felt irritated until Tom used his thumb on her nub. She felt the heat push through her again, and she shut her eyes.

"Open your eyes and look at me," Tom commanded, his voice hard as iron and wintry in tone. Hermione forced her eyes open and saw that he looked on the very edge of self-control. Some little part of her enjoyed seeing him like that, like he was about to simply give in and rip off his pyjama trousers and screw her senseless. A shaky breath came from him then, through his clenched teeth, and he whispered, "Tell me who I am."

Hermione felt a little clench of pleasure as he pressed a bit harder against her nub with the pad of his thumb. She was close - so very close - and she found herself unable to speak. She panted and moaned, trying to keep her eyes open as his fingers moved slowly inside of her. Tom stilled his hand then, and Hermione whimpered in frustration.

"Tell me who I am," Tom commanded again, his voice sounding almost frantic as he whispered. Hermione swallowed and said shakily,

"You're - you're my husband." Then, realising what exactly it was he wanted to hear, she met his eyes and said, "You're the Dark Lord."

Tom grunted from somewhere deep in his chest and lowered his head between Hermione's legs again. He kept his pace steady as he licked and suckled and pumped his fingers inside of her. She heard him moan against her as she pushed her hips up in desperation. Then she was thrown wholly into her climax, the most intense she'd ever felt. Her body shook and writhed of its own accord, and she wondered whether she'd blacked out as a sort of breathless heat overcame her. She felt her quim clenching and contracting around Tom's fingers, heard him groan again with pleasure as she finished for him.

The room was spinning and the blackness went on forever as Hermione clenched her eyes shut and tried to recover, feeling the mattress shift as Tom moved to hover over her.

"You are beautiful," he was murmuring in her ear then, sending a shiver down Hermione's spine. "You are so beautiful when you are flush with pleasure, when you do _that_ for me. Feel how hard you've made me, Hermione. Feel how badly I need you."

There was a shift in his tone then, she noticed. He didn't sound forceful or dominating anymore. He sounded very much in love with her, and he sounded as though he needed to be reassured of something. She reached between them, her fingers trembling in the wake of her climax. She brushed her hand over the front of his pyjama trousers and he hissed in response, his erection twitching at her touch. Hermione made to untie his trousers and pull him out, but once again he stopped her. She raised her eyes to his and felt aroused again as she read the hunger in his gaze.

"Tell me you want me," he requested. If he'd intended to sound domineering, he'd failed. His voice cracked with want, and there was a flash of uncertainty in his dark eyes. Hermione nodded, but Tom continued, "Tell me what to do to you."

Hermione cocked her head to the side and reached up to nestle her hand in his hair. His dark eyes fluttered shut and his jaw went slack. Hermione marveled at the breath quivering through his slightly opened mouth, the way his lips were swollen and shining from giving her pleasure. She wanted to bring him to completion in a way he would enjoy, in a way that would solidify his confidence and good mood so that they could go to Nurmengard and come back victorious.

She wanted to say unspeakable things to him, to put filthy ideas in his head that would make even the boy-crazy Betty Cattermole blanche with alarm. Hermione wanted Tom so badly she was tingling all over, and she wanted to tell him so.

"I want you to turn me over," she began, suddenly wondering whether she'd sound like a harlot saying what she wanted to say. Then she realised she didn't much care if she sounded chaste. This was no time for chastity. She licked her bottom lip and said again, "I want you to turn me over and claim me. Put your cock inside me and plunder me so hard, so fast, so forcefully that I beg you to stop. And when I beg you to stop, don't. Don't stop. Keep going until your seed fills me with your very being. Then go to Nurmengard and take the wand of Gellert Grindelwald."

There was a shocked sort of flash in Tom's eyes at her words, and then everything happened so quickly that Hermione's head spun. He was flipping her over roughly, yanking upon her hips to angle her correctly. Hermione opened her mouth to take a deep breath, leaning upon her elbows for support. But her 'deep breath' quickly turned into a yelp as Tom plunged into her from behind. His hands gripped her hips and he thrashed against her, his cock filling and stretching her and making her think she might finish again.

Then she felt his hand reach around her and plant itself upon her belly. " _O-Obice Graviditate,_ " she heard him mutter frantically. There was a warm little vibration where his hand touched her as his wandless spell protected her from his seed.

Tom suddenly pushed Hermione down so that she lay flat upon her stomach, and he changed the angle from which he thrust into her so that he was grinding against her deliciously. Hermione moaned against the pillows and felt tension rising between her legs. She tumbled into another orgasm when she felt Tom lean down and heard him whisper,

"Yes. Good girl. Show me how good it feels."

His hips bucked a few times against her as she came, and then a feral growl ripped itself from Tom's lungs. He stilled his hips for a while before giving a few more irregular thrusts, and then he collapsed beside her and panted, staring up at the ceiling.

"I love you, Hermione. Whatever happens today, it is very important that you understand that," he mumbled, dragging his fingers through his rumpled hair. Hermione felt her eyes burn as he looked over at her. He nodded and said firmly, "Desperately and completely, I love you."

* * *

 _31 December, 1948_

"Happy Victory Day, My Lord." Abraxas Malfoy bowed his head and approached Voldemort, who had been sitting in his office all day receiving well-wishers. He now watched as Abraxas placed a round crystal ball upon his desk. Inside the ball, a swirling mist circled whilst faint and tangled whispers emanated from the ball.

Voldemort had received word from an insider at the Ministry of Magic that a prophecy regarding him had been made by the renowned Seer Cassandra Vablatsky. He had entrusted Abraxas Malfoy - his closest ally besides Hermione - with the task of obtaining the Prophecy Record. Now Voldemort flicked his eyes over the tag attached to the Record, feeling his heart thud inside his chest.

 _C.V. to A.P.W.B.D._

 _Dark Lord and ? Female_

Voldemort picked up the Prophecy Record and stared into the mist. The haunting whispers inside were just barely audible, a cluster of meaningless sounds and breaths that sent a spike of unease through his spine. He sniffed lightly and looked up at Abraxas.

"I am much obliged, Malfoy, that you have obtained the Record. Now, if you will let the others outside know that I shall require privacy for a while…"

"Of course, My Lord." Abraxas nodded emphatically and began to back from the room. He hesitated for a brief moment. "Shall I send in the Lady?" he asked cautiously.

Voldemort pondered his answer for a long while. He had no idea what message the Prophecy contained. Perhaps it was best to exclude Hermione from hearing it. He could always tell her later what the Record had said, if he decided it was something she ought to know.

Then he remembered how, four years previously, he had informed her that she was not his subordinate, that she was the only one safe from him. And he realised that if a Prophecy had been made about him, she ought to hear it.

"Yes," he said at last to Abraxas. "Send Hermione in at once, will you?"

"Of course, My Lord."

* * *

 _31 December, 1944_

 _9:03 GMT_

Hermione flew, Disillusioned, from the snowy wood with her wand held cautiously before her. She and Tom had split up immediately upon their arrival via Portkey, just as they'd planned to do. She was making her own way, invisibly, through the sky toward Nurmengard, though they would approach from different angles.

Before she'd Disillusioned herself, after they'd landed with a thud in the snow-covered forest, Hermione had placed her hands upon Tom's cheeks and said firmly,

"I shall see you back here, then. Afterward."

He'd nodded. "When you see my signal, come straight back to the dagger."

The Portkey, as it had turned out, was an ancient-looking dagger with a jeweled hilt. Now it lay on the white ground, waiting for them to return. Tom's signal, which would call Hermione away from her distraction-making efforts, was to be a Dark Mark cast into the sky above Nurmengard. Hermione had informed Tom weeks earlier of the existence of his Dark Mark in her time, as a method of intimidation and signalling. Tom had spent days refining the spell needed to cast the Mark, and he had told her it would shine even against the cloudy morning sky. The Mark would call Hermione back to the dagger, but it would also inform the entire wizarding world what he was capable of doing.

Hermione soared through the frigid air, glad she'd cast a rudimentary warming charm upon herself. She had grown particularly skilled with Tom's method of unassisted flight, though she'd always been awful on a broomstick. She swerved to her left as the imposing tower of Nurmengard came into view, and a pit of anxiety settled into her stomach.

Nurmengard loomed like a solid shadow over the cliff upon which it seemed so precariously perched. The cliff dropped sharply off just beyond Nurmengard, and one side of the tower faced squarely out upon the raging grey sea below. Hermione felt her velvet cloak fluttering behind her, unseen by even her own eyes, as she soared over the churning sea toward the fortress.

Finally, she neared the grounds, and as she circled around she could more clearly make out the situation she and Tom faced. The windows of Nurmengard held no bars; they were just narrow slits in the stalwart walls, open to the cold wind and rain, offering tempting slivers of light to the prisoners within. Hermione wondered with a pang of nausea who exactly was inside the prison, and she wished she and Tom had been able to more clearly ascertain that before attacking.

 _No matter,_ she thought. _Soon enough their cell doors will open and we shall see who they are._

Hermione moved to fly around the enormous walls of the fortress, feeling a fresh surge of courage as she did. She was suddenly rather grateful that she'd had Felix Felicis earlier in the day, lest her fear overtake her now. But while she felt anxious, she was unafraid. The very worst that could happen, she reckoned, was that she would be killed. But she'd already left her old life behind with no hope of returning to its exact incarnation. Death was a possibility, certainly. But if Tom succeeded, she thought perhaps she might have accomplished something by coming back in time. Perhaps, in being his ally instead of his enemy, she could save lives. Perhaps. But she couldn't think of such things now. All that mattered in this moment was that she did her duty so that Tom could carry out his plans. She was a critical instrument to his success.

The grounds of Nurmengard were covered in a thick blanket of snow, which appeared untouched by footprints and spread like a cloud around the fortress. There was a narrow ring of cleared ground round the castle, beyond which the thick thatch of forest resumed. Hermione pulled herself up in the air to a stop, hovering about twenty metres from the ground, and pointed her wand at the trees nearest the castle. She summoned every bit of magic she could from within her, feeling her throat burn as she screamed,

" _CONFRINGO!"_

A powerful burst of orange light hurtled through the air toward the trees, and then suddenly a bit of the forest exploded with an enormous _Bang!_

Hermione watched in awe as pine needles and branches whirled through the air, her ears ringing from the sound and force of the blast. She waited a long moment, for the castle was still silent and seemingly devoid of life. She swallowed heavily and jabbed her wand toward a cluster of trees to the right of those she'd just hit.

" _CONFRINGO!_ " Another mighty Blasting Curse hit the trees, this one so powerful that Hermione rushed backward through the air and had to steady herself. A few moments later, there were audible shouts at the base of the castle, and then several black-cloaked wizards sprinted onto the pristine snow. They held their wands in front of themselves, then pointed them up at the sky and searched for a source of the blasts.

" _Was ist passiert?_ " A tall, lean witch stormed from the castle and joined her comrades, who seemed to be murmuring back to her frantically. She swept her wand in an arc over her head and said loudly enough for Hermione to hear, " _Homenum Revelio!_ "

Hermione held her breath, grateful for the strength of her Disillusionment as she felt the witch's spell pass over her with a dull vibration. But she knew she was still invisible, glancing down at her own hand and seeing nothing but the wintry air.

The witch and the wizards on the ground seemed to be angrily discussing something else. Hermione felt a surge of power course through her arm as she pointed her wand at the ground before them and said, " _Expulso!"_

A jet of blue light shot from her wand and landed square upon the snow, and then there was another _BANG!_ as the ground exploded. The witch and the wizards shrieked and hit the ground to protect themselves. When the smoke cleared, Hermione could see that she'd caused a giant divot in the earth before them.

She moved through the air, silent and invisible, to avoid detection, and she finally landed softly at the top of a gently swaying evergreen tree beyond the castle grounds. She saw the witch and wizards climb slowly to their feet, one looking quite shaken, and she felt a tiny bit guilty for potentially injuring them. But then she remembered how Nurmengard was full of prisoners - enemies of Grindelwald - and her guilt vanished. She wondered absently whether Tom was inside the fortress yet, whether he or Grindelwald or both or neither were still alive.

She didn't have long to think on it. From the front gate of the castle, she could see several grey figures, human in form but clearly not alive, crawling through the snow. They were rail-thin, visibly decaying, and even from where she was perched, Hermione could smell the reek of death upon them. There were perhaps thirty of them - the Inferi Tom had mentioned - and they filed out of the castle one by one, seemingly directed by the wand of the tall witch. She barked orders at them in German, and they began crawling steadily away from the fortress in every direction, making their way to the trees. Hermione felt a quiver of fear, brief and quickly shoved away by her artificial confidence.

She swept her wand in a smooth motion before her, whispering, " _Inferi Inflammati."_

She wasn't certain that the incantation would work; she simply substituted in her target to a spell she had long known. She had figured it was worth trying the spell before moving to Fiendfyre, which she feared would be difficult to control and may cause extraneous deaths.

She was rather delighted, therefore, to see that her spell hit one of the Inferi before seeming to bounce randomly about the ambulatory corpses. One by one, their grey, decaying flesh burst into flames. One by one, they withered into shrieking heaps of ash, as Hermione watched from her tree perch with ever-growing horror.

She knew they were already dead, of course, but hearing the screams and smelling the burning, rotting flesh nearly made her vomit. She gathered herself when she remembered why she and Tom were here, and she reminded herself to be grateful that Tom had given her clearance to open the prison's cells. Hoping she was not yet out of time, she flew from the tree, soaring through the air over the burning Inferi and the terrified guards.

Hermione glided until she reached one of the narrow windows, and then she stopped midair again. She peered through the little slit and saw a young man, barely older than Tom, crouched in the dank corner of the cell within. He appeared half-dead, emaciated and coughing, and wore only scraps of filthy material. Hermione felt ill again, this time for a different reason entirely. She pointed her wand through the narrow window and incanted,

" _Liberacaptivus!"_

The young man inside slowly turned his head toward the window, his sunken eyes looking fearful at the sound of Hermione's voice. But then his cell door unlocked itself with a loud _clank_ and swung open with a mighty creak.

"Go!" Hermione cried through the window, watching the young man pull himself to his feet. "Get up and leave this place! And remember who it is that liberated you - The True Dark Lord ascends, my friend."

She repeated this process in five or six other windows, and then she could hear a proper racket from inside the fortress as other doors were swung open - the prisoners were freeing one another and shouting.

Suddenly there was a _whoosh_ and a _bang_ from somewhere above Hermione. She pulled away from the window, still Disillusioned, and saw the faint green glitter of Tom's Dark Mark upon the sky above Nurmengard.

Her stomach leaped and her heart thrummed in her chest as she made her way back to the meeting-point. She landed upon the snowy ground near the dagger and removed her Disillusionment Charm, panting frantically as she looked about for Tom.

Then, out of nowhere, he appeared before her, his own Disillusionment removed. Hermione noticed something different about him at once. His dark eyes glistened with an emotion she couldn't quite read. In his right hand, he clutched a strange-looking wand, long and black with odd ridges and bumps. It was not his yew wand - it had to be the wand of Gellert Grindelwald. Hermione gulped and blinked away tears as she met Tom's steely gaze. He was oddly calm as she asked him,

"Is it done, then?"

He nodded once and clutched her arm, yanking her near and crushing her mouth with a kiss. Hermione was still breathless and shaking with disbelief as Tom laced her fingers through his and reached down to pick up the dagger.

Then the world around Hermione disappeared in a pinching, whirling, screeching flash, and she landed with a _thud_ inside Room 11 of the Three Broomsticks.

* * *

 _1 January 1944_

Tom Riddle stormed up the steps of the Hogwarts Headmaster's office, having broken past the charms and enchantments that usually locked the entry. He burst through the door into Dippet's office to find the old fool speaking calmly to Leonard Spencer-Moon, the Minister for Magic.

Spencer-Moon was a pureblood wizard, plump and middle-aged with grey-streaked hair, who had ascended to his post after his predecessor had failed to take the threat of Grindelwald's revolution seriously. Tom had long suspected that Spencer-Moon would be easily manipulated in the wake of Grindelwald's defeat, and that suspicion strengthened as he realised Dumbledore had been arguing with the Minister. Hovering behind the two of them was Armando Dippet, his face contorted with confusion.

All three men turned to face the door through which Tom had just stormed, alarm written upon their faces. Tom wrapped his fingers more tightly around the black wand in his right hand. Since killing Grindelwald, he had realised that the wand worked even better for him than his own, and he had every intention of keeping it as the ultimate trophy on his path to power.

" _Expelliarmus,"_ Tom said in a bored voice, flicking his wand. Though Dumbledore reacted quickly to shield himself, Tom's spell was strong enough to send Dumbledore's wand soaring against a bookshelf. Leonard Spencer-Moon and Dippet both appeared concerned once more, though neither did anything to attack Tom.

"Tom," Dumbledore said with maddening calm, "I can not say I am entirely surprised to see you here. As you may know, the Christmas holidays do not conclude until the sixth of this month. I suggest you return to the orphanage until then -"

"Be silent, you old fool," Tom commanded, pointing his wand at Dumbledore as Leonard Spencer-Moon stared in numb shock. Dumbledore, for his part, raised his chin a bit and said smoothly,

"Minister, have you had the pleasure of meeting our Head Boy before? Tom Riddle, may I introduce Minister for Magic Spencer-Moon?"

Tom felt rage boiling up within him, but he maintained a confident and measured voice as he flicked his eyes to the Minister and back to Dumbledore. "I am no longer Tom Riddle. I am Lord Voldemort, though you may deign to address me as 'The Dark Lord.' You may recognise the wand in my hand."

"I do." Dumbledore nodded, his throat bobbing as he swallowed hard enough to betray his lack of outward panic. "That wand has belonged for many years to my old friend Gellert Grindelwald - a friend who, I am sorry to say, strayed from the right path. It seems you have done the same, Tom."

Tom laughed cruelly and twirled the wand in his fingers before pointing it back to Dumbledore. "Your 'old friend' is dead," he announced, though he was certain Dumbledore knew that full well. Tom continued, "He crumpled like a rag doll before me, descending into a heap of dead flesh after I cursed the life and magic from him. He was no great wizard, and neither are you. Swear me fealty and I shall extend you mercy."

Dumbledore laughed then, sending a fresh wave of anger through Tom's veins. Dumbledore shook his head as he chuckled and murmured, "Oh, my dear boy. It shall be a sad day indeed for Hogwarts when the staff swears an oath to a wayward student. If you will excuse us, the Minister and the Headmaster and I were just finishing our meeting."

Tom narrowed his eyes at Dumbledore, seething with rage. He blinked and nonverbally cast the charm he'd created to release the anti-Apparition wards from Hogwarts - _Potest Apparitio -_ and then he cocked his head to the side and smirked at Dumbledore.

"Do you know, I don't suppose I shall be coming back on the sixth of this month," he said. "And neither shall my wife. You shall be needing a new Head Boy and Head Girl, I'm afraid. We have far more pressing obligations now than attending your little school."

Before Dumbledore could answer, Tom Disapparated from the office. When his feet hit solid ground, he was in the ancestral home of Malfoy Manor, where he had been granted indefinite refuge. He steadied himself and looked about the room where he'd landed, watching as Hermione flew to her feet from a chair and wrung her hands nervously.

Tom felt a fresh smile coming over him as he watched her dash toward him across the room. It was as she'd said on the Hogwarts Express.

Things would be different now.

* * *

 _January 1945_

Tom looked about the capacious bedchamber that had been granted to him upon arriving at Malfoy Manor. It was quite clearly the most luxurious room in the house - the place of honour for the ascending Dark Lord. But Tom found the place positively garish. The walls were covered with cream-and-gold damask fabric, and an obnoxiously glittery crystal chandelier hung from the centre of the ceiling. The bed he was to share with Hermione was wide and would have been quite inviting if not for all the stuffy-looking silk upon it. The walls were lined with mirrors and paintings, all of which were framed with ornate golden monstrosities.

The bedchamber rather gave Tom a headache, though it was admittedly one he was willing to bear, all things considered. He'd been raised in a Muggle orphanage and then had been mired beneath the yoke of school for nearly seven years. This room in Malfoy Manor was practically Versailles compared to his humble homes thus far.

Too bad, then, Tom thought, that soon enough he would be back in the Head Boy's chamber at Hogwarts.

He and Hermione had determined that it would be most prudent to return to Hogwarts until the summer. Hermione had pointed out to Tom that the majority of his followers were still of school age, and they would be at Hogwarts without him. With Dumbledore.

So Tom had decided that he would go back to school, triumphant new man that he'd become. It would feel good, Tom thought, to shove his success down Dumbledore's throat. And, given the open knowledge that Tom had killed Grindelwald, it would allow him to recruit more young followers (and their families).

Tom stood near a window in the golden bedchamber and stared out for a minute at the cloudy winter day. Then he held up the copy of _The Daily Prophet_ that had come by owl that morning, and he reread the front page for at least the fifth time.

He'd met two days previously with Arden Colporter, a writer from the _Daily Prophet_ , at the Leaky Cauldron at two in the morning. Hermione had come with him, of course - she was his wife, and Tom had made that clear enough during the interview. But the foolish wench Colporter had crafted his front-page story in such sensationalist fashion that Tom had felt outrage afterward.

 _HOGWARTS HEART-THROB SLAYS GRINDELWALD,_ the headline read, in annoyingly large script. Beneath the headline was a moving picture of Tom - Hermione had been cut from the photograph. He was flashing the camera a look that was, admittedly, rather charming. But, if Tom recalled correctly, he'd only looked that way as the flashbulb went off because Hermione had smelled so enticing on the bench beside him. Like lilacs and rain-soaked trees.

Tom paced angrily before the windows of the bedchamber and scowled as he read the article again.

 _Tom Riddle's unassuming physical appearance does little to accurately convey the confidence with which he carries himself,_ the article began. Tom felt queasy as he kept reading.

 _Tall and slim, with carefully-coiffed raven hair and glinting dark eyes, the boy who calls himself a Dark Lord is wont to smirk whilst he speaks. His voice, a sibilant sort of murmur, cuts through the inn where we meet to discuss the tale of his recent doings. I ask Mr Riddle why it is that he killed the greatest Dark wizard of all time._

 _'I didn't,' he tells me smoothly, flicking up an eyebrow and flashing me that smirk. When I look confused, he specifies that he himself is the greatest Dark wizard of all time. That he was simply getting Gellert Grindelwald out of his way._

 _And that is how Tom Riddle speaks, with a disarming degree of charm and a steady, learned fluency that belies his humble upbringing. The son of a Muggle father and the last female Gaunt, Mr Riddle's life has been a true rags-to-riches tale. He was raised in London, I am told by an anonymous source, in an orphanage for Muggle children. He began at Hogwarts in 1938 and has since proven himself to be among the school's most talented pupils of all time. Made Head Boy this year, he is beloved by nearly all his classmates and by his instructors._

 _Few, though, likely thought that Tom Riddle would spend his Christmas holidays in a one-on-one battle with Gellert Grindelwald. Mr Riddle shows me Grindelwald's wand, which he claimed as a trophy. He tells me of how his lovely female accomplice cast Blasting Curses outside the walls of Nurmengard, opening a window of opportunity to attack. He speaks with an eerie calm of how easily he Disarmed and slaughtered the fearsome Grindelwald, how he took the wand as proof and loot._

 _I am struck, sitting in a dark tavern in the middle of the night, by the rigidity in Mr Riddle's spine as he tells his story. I am alarmed by the air of authority he carries weightlessly about his form, by the calculating coolness thrumming through his every mannerism and word._

 _And I suspect the rest of wizarding Britain will be, as well, when they meet Mr Riddle. For, it seems to this reporter that one does not simply kill Gellert Grindelwald without escaping fame, or at least infamy. Of course, Mr Riddle has no desire for anonymity, and he tells me so in no uncertain terms._

 _'Why did you kill Gellert Grindelwald?' I ask him again, rephrasing the question that had earlier offended his sensibilities. Mr Riddle tilts his head and says, quite simply,_

 _'There is room enough in our world for only one Dark Lord. And I am he.'_

 _Perhaps it is so. Only time shall tell._

Tom still wasn't certain what he ought to think about the article. He disliked its opening, focusing so heavily on his appearance. It might have been flattering to be painted as so handsome, if it hadn't been so patronising. He was not going to be powerful because of his 'carefully-coiffed raven hair.' He disliked being called a 'boy.' And he certainly did not approve of any mention of his humble past. Just as significantly, Tom took issue with the notable lack of credit given to Hermione. She was not his 'lovely female accomplice.' She was his wife, and that had been made quite clear to the reporter. It was not Tom who was 'calculating,' he thought. It was Arden Colporter of the _Daily Prophet_ , so eager to sell copies of the paper. She had, in a sense, reduced Tom to a petulant child with a murderous streak. And she'd reduced Hermione to nothing at all.

Tom had been so angry after reading the newspaper that morning that he'd sent Neptunus and Abraxas Malfoy to the _Prophet._ They had, on Tom's behalf, ordered Arden Colporter to write again, the following day. She was to include more details of the battle at Nurmengard, they told her. She was to write of how Grindelwald had been using Inferi made from the bodies of his enemies. She was to write of how Hermione - Tom's _wife_ , the Malfoys stressed again - had eliminated the Inferi in the course of creating a diversion. She was to write of how Hermione had opened the cells inside the prison and freed those held within. And Arden Colporter was to subtly remind readers that Albus Dumbledore had long refused to kill Grindelwald, thus painting Tom as a hero. He had stepped in to fill the shoes Dumbledore had ignored, and Arden Colporter was to make that obvious.

Tossing aside the _Daily Prophet_ , Tom pulled out the letter that Abraxas had handed him upon returning to Malfoy Manor.

 _Mr Riddle,_ it read,

 _I am most aggrieved to hear that you were so displeased with the article printed this morning. Indeed, you were not the only one who took issue with the 'tabloid' nature of the article, and for that I sincerely apologise. In response to many angry owls received this morning, as well as a considerate in-person visit from your friends, I shall be writing again tomorrow. I do hope that the new article is to your liking, and that you will be willing to speak with me again in the future. I suspect that in the coming months and years, your story will unfold in a manner most conducive to journalistic examination._

 _Kind regards,_

 _Arden Colporter_

Tom had shown the letter to Hermione after lunch, and she had insisted that this was another reason for the two of them to return to Hogwarts.

"There is nothing that will more accurately spread the message of your ascent than your very presence," she had insisted. Then she'd suggested, "Ingratiate yourself to the staff at Hogwarts, to every student you can, to their families. Then Dumbledore will stand alone in his hatred of you, and he will look like a madman when he insists you are wrong."

Tom had excused himself from the drawing-room before withdrawing to the bedchamber. Abraxas and his younger brother had been playing Gobstones whilst their uncle and father looked on. Tom had been stewing in a chair, reading the _Prophet_ and feeling annoyed by the periodic uproarious laughter coming from the Gobstones table. He'd risen from his chair and cleared his throat gently to get attention, and the other wizards had ceased laughing and flown to their feet.

"I think I shall retire to my room for awhile," Tom had said, knowing that Hermione was already there resting before dinner. Tom had given a slight incline of his head and received bows in return, along with mumblings of, "Of course, My Lord."

Now he paced in the bedchamber, glancing out the window from time to time. He knew Hermione was in the expansive ensuite bathroom, soaking away her own worries. Feeling a strong urge to speak with her, Tom crossed the bedchamber swiftly and was about to fling open the bathroom door when he thought the better of it. He raised his hand and rapped lightly upon the heavy walnut door, calling,

"Hermione? May I come in, please?"

There was a quiet _click_ and the door swung open for him as Hermione unlocked it with her wand from within. Tom stepped into the bathroom, shutting the door gently behind him and freezing where he stood.

She was almost frighteningly beautiful, he thought, sitting in the enormous copper clawfoot tub. The candles in the sconces sent a glow dancing across the jade-coloured wallpaper, bathing the windowless bathroom in a warm wash of firelight. Tom sniffed lightly and strode across the pale marble floor, sinking to sit beside the copper tub so that he was facing Hermione. Her chestnut eyes glistened as though she'd been crying, but she gave him a sad little smile and said,

"You don't have to ask, you know. Whether you can see me in the bathtub. I'm your wife. You don't have to ask."

He didn't have to ask for anything, Tom thought, from anyone but her. From his Slytherin cronies, he could have anything he wanted. From his father and his uncle and Ladon Scamander and Gellert Grindelwald, he took life without asking permission. But from Hermione Granger, he would take nothing which she did not freely give. Tom touched his fingertips to the warm water in the tub beside him, watching the ripples spread and die.

"You helped me more than you'll ever truly know," he heard himself say. He raised his eyes from the water and met Hermione's curious gaze. He cupped her jaw in his hand and drew his fingers along her skin until she shivered.

Her breasts and womanhood were obscured by the milky-white water. So Tom reached for the washrag that she'd wrung out and draped over the rim of the copper tub, and he dipped it into the opaque, soapy water. He dragged it over her neck and shoulders and her eyes fluttered shut. Tom dipped the washrag again and this time allowed himself to drift down the front of her until his hand and wrist were underwater. He was suddenly rather glad he'd rolled up his shirtsleeves as he danced his fingers over her submerged skin. He felt a tightening in his trousers and pulled his hand from the bath, shaking the water from his fingers as he reminded himself why he'd wanted to speak with her.

"If you hadn't been there," he said firmly, meeting her wide eyes, "I do not suppose I would have succeeded. I was hovering, Disillusioned, outside Grindelwald's private office. It was at the top of the castle, you know, and he had a large glass-paned window, not the little open slits like the prisoners had. I could see him inside, gesticulating as he spoke with a rather large group of wizards. They were nodding and looked concerned. I was just about to amplify their conversation so that I could eavesdrop, but then there was an enormous explosion. Your first Blasting Curse."

Hermione smiled crookedly, but her eyes stayed flat. She swallowed and nodded, and she said, "I took out at least ten trees with the first one. I feel a bit awful about that."

"I shall have some trees planted to reconcile the offence," Tom joked, his voice and face sombre. Hermione's smile quirked again, and Tom reached to touch her face again as he said,

"A few of the men in the room left at once - I suspect to go investigate the cause of the blast. Grindelwald appeared distracted as he stared out the window, searching for the source of the explosion. Then there was another bang, and chaos broke out at the base of the castle. I saw the Inferi pour outside, saw the way they burst into flames when you ignited them."

"They smelled of death," Hermione whispered, her face suddenly full of grief and disgust. She shook her head and grimaced. "They smelled rotten. They were grey, and they moved like animals."

"They were not people, Hermione. Not anymore." Tom thought it was silly that she needed to be told that, to be consoled after destroying Inferi who had been weaponised by a madman. But he could sense the unease in her voice, and he decided he needed her to be strong, as he knew she could. He tipped her face up to make her look at him, and then he said as gently as he could manage, "You saved far more lives that day than either of us took, Hermione."

A steely sort of look came over her face, and she moved to sit forward in the bath, sending water lapping around her body. She put her hands on Tom's shoulders and whispered,

"Kiss me, please. I need to know you're still the boy I married."

Tom laughed, low and under his breath, and he shook his head. But he kissed her, as she'd asked him to do. He kissed her so fiercely that she moaned, that he wanted nothing more than to be naked with her. As he pulled away, he petted her half-dry, wild hair, and he whispered,

"I am your husband. I am the boy who was thrown from reality the moment I first sensed you in a cauldron of Amortentia. I am the boy who nervously gave you lilacs in the corridor and felt crushed when you Vanished them. I am the boy who touched and kissed and made love to you because I simply could not help myself, because I was and am utterly intoxicated by your very being. I am the boy who begged you to marry me, the one who felt a soaring thrill when you pledged yourself to me forever. I adore and admire you, Hermione, with all that I am. I am your husband. But I am much more... I am also..."

"I know." Hermione nodded resolutely. She kissed him again, briefly, and she gave him a little smile. "You're Lord Voldemort. And I love you anyway."

* * *

 _October, 1951_

Lord Voldemort had never truly realised how many of his affairs were handled by Hermione until she withdrew from private life to birth their daughter. In the week since Georgiana had been born, Voldemort had witnessed the extent of Hermione's impact through first-hand experience. Three days previously, he had met with a Centaur for over a half hour discussing issues he may have deemed too insignificant to consume so much time. He had abruptly found himself quite grateful for the way Hermione handled such meetings with grace and diplomacy, the way she distilled endless conversations into concise and important summaries for him.

And just this evening, Voldemort had been required to spent nearly two hours with several witches and wizards stationed undercover at the Ministry. That meeting had seemed interminable, with one witch droning on ceaselessly about her 'idiotic co-workers and their inability to properly file Transportation paperwork.' Voldemort had Confounded that witch into silence, quite tired of hearing minutiae of entry-level Ministry work.

When at last he dismissed his spies, Voldemort's head was pounding and he ached with fatigue. He'd taken a few drops of Wiggenweld Potion to bring himself to rights, and then he'd made his way to the nursery.

He could hear her before he even reached the doorway. There was a gentle, rhythmic creaking as the rocking chair moved steadily forward and backward, and Hermione's voice gently crooned,

" _Sleep, my darling, in the pale midnight moonlight…Sleep, my child, in the breeze from the sea. Sleep, my little girl, the morning sun shake wake you and carry you gently on sunbeams to me."_

Voldemort felt his eyes burn a bit, and he wondered whether there was some sort of poison in the air of the corridor. The stinging in his eyes grew a bit stronger when he heard the sound of Georgiana's tiny cry, and then Hermione's soothing _hush_.

He realised that the odd sensation in his face was the formation of tears. It was the eruption of unchecked emotion. Of love for the woman in the nursery, and for the child she cradled. Voldemort huffed a bit, cross with himself for allowing even the vague beginnings of wetness in his eyes. He growled under his breath, and then the rocking chair in the nursery stopped creaking.

"I hear your father just outside, Georgie," he heard Hermione say carefully. "Perhaps he will come inside and hold you for a moment."

Voldemort sighed again and gulped to steady himself. He walked briskly into the nursery, pretending he hadn't heard Hermione's murmurs as he said matter-of-factly,

"That witch we've got in the Department of Magical Transportation is an utter dolt. She had nothing of note to contribute, but she _did_ manage to speak for nearly ten minutes about improperly filed Floo applications. The others had _something_ to tell, at the very least, but this one… I carefully searched her mind and I found nothing of use. She is -"

"I shall ensure that she is not present at any future meetings with you," Hermione said very calmly. She tightened her fingertips over the blanket cocooning little Georgiana, and then she clarified, "I shall instruct her to send any relevant information to you through me."

Voldemort sighed, staring at Georgiana for a moment before he said, "You will do nothing of the sort. I shall handle the matter myself. Your place is here, for the time being."

Hermione smirked and leaned down to kiss Georgiana's smooth forehead, her fingers brushing across the newborn's raven hair. The child stirred at the touch, and Hermione chuckled patiently before soothing her back to sleep.

"You're very natural with her," Lord Voldemort said self-consciously. He shifted upon his feet and chewed his bottom lip as Hermione nodded in gratitude. Voldemort admitted softly, "Sometimes when I hold her, I fear I shall break her. She must be very fragile, and very important, to have such words spoken about her."

He was referring, of course, to the prophecy that he and Hermione had heard several years previously. For a while, there had been a strain between them as they'd each processed the meaning of the prophecy. Lord Voldemort could still hear the ghostly whisper of Cassandra Vablatsky's voice after they'd broken open the Prophecy Record.

' _The Dark Lord's ascent hinges upon the fall of his beloved... she shall enter his world unexpected and insistent... her departure shall burn a hole within him, and shall stoke the flames of his fury... the beloved shall come, and she shall go, and she shall leave a mark far Darker than any which has come before... her existence shall be snuffed out as a candle, but she shall tread the deepest of footprints. To time she is servant; her life is and was and ever will be brief.'_

Both Voldemort and the Dark Lady had interpreted the Prophecy for its most obvious meaning. The 'beloved' referenced must be Hermione, they'd both thought. Voldemort had felt ill at ease for a great long while, his sleep haunted by visions of Hermione's demise. Now that Georgiana had been born, and Voldemort had felt love for only the second time in his existence, he questioned the Prophecy again.

Which 'beloved' would have a short and tragic life? Which of the figures before him would leave him bereft and heartbroken? The week since Georgie's birth had left Voldemort with a constant anxious thrum in his veins. He'd spent hours at a time staring at flickering candle and cursing the Prophecy.

Now he stared down at Hermione and Georgiana and thought of how deeply they'd burrowed their way into his mind and soul. He could scarcely ponder the thought of losing either of them; to do so made him feel physically unwell.

"Tom," he heard Hermione say with a gentle insistence, and he flicked his eyes to hers. She held Georgiana up a few inches so that Voldemort would take the child from her. He did, feigning confidence as he noted how the child seemed heavier just since this morning. Voldemort stared down at Georgiana's face, peacefully lost to slumber, and the burning in his eyes returned. He let out a shaky breath and willed away the stinging. The Dark Lord did not cry whilst holding a baby. He was silently grateful that he and Hermione were alone in the nursery.

He swayed instinctively where he stood and shook with silent laughter when Georgiana's mouth cracked into an endearing yawn. Georgie's eyes cracked open then and stared up at him. Voldemort looked at Hermione and gave her a crooked smile.

"You do that," he informed her. "You yawn just before you wake."

Something hot and wet and terribly unwanted fell from his face then and landed upon Georgie's little blanket. The lone tear spread upon the cream-coloured material like the ripple in a pond. Voldemort swore under his breath and pinched his lips, scolding himself for allowing the tear to fall.

"Tom," Hermione was saying. He nodded to acknowledge her as he stared down at Georgiana, and Hermione said in a steely voice, "I once knew of a prophecy concerning you. One that never came to pass. Just because the future is predicted does not mean it shall be so. If there is anything you and I have learned over the past seven years, it is that there is no such thing as destiny. There are no inevitabilities. There are only choices."

Voldemort's breath quivered through his nostrils as he fought off the rising swell in his chest. He whispered through clenched teeth, "I can not lose her. I can not lose you. I would rather die an anonymous death a thousand times over. I wouldn't - I won't…" He raised his eyes to Hermione and felt another stray tear worm its way from his eye. He didn't much care this time. He took another trembling breath, and he repeated, "I can not lose either of you."

He hardened his gaze as he took in Hermione's patient nod, the way she rose from the rocking chair and curled herself up beside him. She put her hand between his shoulders and brushed her thumb under Georgie's eye, prompting a tiny sound from the girl.

"You will not lose us," she insisted to Voldemort. "You will not lose anything. You will make the choices that you must, and you will have everything you've ever wanted."

* * *

 _January, 1945_

Hermione had been prepared for the _concept_ of what would happen after Grindelwald was killed. Everyone would have an opinion, she knew. Some would despise Tom (and, by extension, her). They would hiss under their breath that he was a vigilante, a murderer, a madman worse than Grindelwald himself. Then there would be the ones who anticipated his ascent with pleasure, the ones who would flock to Tom's feet in search of glory and fame and wealth and power.

School would be different, she knew. They would face the hatred of Dumbledore and the polarised perceptions of the students and staff. There would still be patrols to be completed, essays to be written, potions to be brewed. There would still be meals in the Great Hall and walks about the grounds. But so many things, Hermione knew, would be categorically different than they'd been before Christmas.

She had prepared for all of that, in her mind. She proved herself right on the Hogwarts Express. As the train rushed north, she experienced admiring stares and glares of loathing. She sensed whispers as she approached and heard them as she departed. Quite against her will, she found she was carrying herself a bit differently. She felt taller, more confident, and she knew there was a rather severe expression permanently painted upon her features.

"Anything from the trolley?"

In the narrow corridor before her, Hermione could see that the food trolley witch was doling out Pumpkin Pasties and Toothflossing Stringmints. She watched the old witch take a few coins through an open compartment door, and she heard a familiar voice say politely,

"I'd like a Cauldron Cake, please."

It was Betty Cattermole. Hermione had heard Abraxas speak ceaselessly of Betty over the Christmas holidays; it seemed he was utterly infatuated with the girl. Hermione vaguely wondered whether or not Betty knew that, and she forgot all about Tom and Grindelwald as she strode toward the food trolley. After the old witch continued down the train car, Hermione yanked open the door to the compartment from which she'd heard Betty's voice.

She grinned when she saw her blonde friend sitting opposite Maggie Prewett. The latter stared wide-eyed at Hermione as she sat down on the bench opposite Betty and said excitedly,

"Oh, I've missed you both terribly. Did you both enjoy Christmas? Betty, do you know that Abraxas Malfoy has been speaking constantly of you for days? He's in love with you, I think."

Hermione felt her natural gregariousness surging back to life as she spoke. But then everything came crashing down when Maggie scoffed in disbelief,

"Are we meant to sit here and ignore the fact that your _husband_ spent his holidays assassinating Gellert Grindelwald? That _you_ spent _your_ holidays blasting apart Inferi so that your husband could commit murder?"

Hermione turned to Maggie with open-mouthed shock. She slid a few inches to her left on the bench and swallowed, feeling a strange nervous heat in her chest. She shook her head and said firmly,

"You two are my friends. I don't want to talk about any of that just now. I want to talk about how keen Abraxas Malfoy is on Betty."

"Hermione, how did Abraxas speak to you of me over the holidays?" Betty's voice was cautious as she spoke. She wrung her hands in her lap, and Hermione immediately read behind the question. Betty had deduced that Hermione had spent her holidays somewhere with Abraxas Malfoy - likely Malfoy Manor.

Hermione wondered whether or not she would ever again be friendly with Betty or Maggie. She squared her jaw and said solemnly to Betty,

"Abraxas' family was kind enough to host Tom and myself for the New Year." She flicked her eyes to Maggie, ignoring the red-haired girl's narrowed eyes. Hermione cleared her throat and said to Betty, "I married Tom Riddle in a secret, private ceremony because I knew what was going to happen at Nurmengard. I knew we would both be at risk, so we married ahead of time."

Betty surprised Hermione then by sighing, "I had hoped to see you in a white gown, Hermione. But no matter. What's important now is that you are safe. That the Dark Lord is safe."

Hermione felt a cold flush course through her veins. Had Betty just referred to Tom as 'The Dark Lord'? Maggie Prewett seemed just as taken aback.

"The _what?_ " she nearly shrieked, causing Hermione to jolt where she sat. Maggie flew from the bench and glared from Hermione to Betty. "Tom Riddle is no 'Dark Lord.' He is a murderer and a madman. It's as simple as that. He'll be rotting in Azkaban for his crimes before we sit our N.E.W.T.s - mark my words."

Hermione felt a surge of anger then, and she collected herself enough to say in a dangerous murmur, "Get out, Maggie."

Maggie looked terribly offended, huffing down at Hermione and sneering, "Who are _you_ to command me from a train compartment? You married the Head Boy - an insane criminal - and for that you think you may command me to leave? I've been sitting here since King's Cross! _You_ leave!"

Hermione felt a pang of sadness as she realised that her friendship with Maggie was beyond rescue. She flicked her eyes across the compartment to see that Betty was staring down at her hands in her lap, her face impassive. Through her silence, Betty had tacitly allied herself with Hermione. There was only one enemy in the compartment.

Hermione realised that she must not allow Maggie to speak to her the way she'd done. To do so, to permit such insolence and aggression, would set a dangerous precedent. If Tom were truly to ascend, there could be no such vocal vitriol. Hermione sniffed lightly and rose from the bench to face Maggie.

"Get out," she said again, her calm voice little more than a whisper. "There are consequences, Maggie Prewett, to things we say and do. There are rewards, and there are punishments. I do not wish to feel compelled to demonstrate the latter. Get out, and I shall consider pretending that you never spoke in such a manner about the Dark Lord."

Maggie Prewett's glare was sharp and full of loathing then. Her fists balled at her sides and her lip curled up in disgust. "You shall burn with him," she said simply, and then she shoved past Hermione and dashed down the corridor.

Hermione stared out the window for a moment as the furious ringing in her ears died down. She watched as the first swells of the Highlands came into view, and she wondered when she'd become so wicked. Perhaps her soul was blackened through by what she'd done at Nurmengard. Or perhaps simply by falling in love with Tom, she'd murdered her old self. As the fields of heather whizzed by, Hermione found she did not much care about the past anymore - particularly the one she'd left behind for good. All that mattered now was the boy with the raven hair who smelled of soap and iron, the boy who had kissed her and given her lilacs and made her his wife. His Dark Lady.

She breathed out slowly through her nose and felt a weight lift from her mind and body as she did. She wondered whether she'd absorbed a bit of Tom's Darkness when she'd pledged herself to him. If she had, she thought, she did not much mind. Perhaps she'd always been a bit too 'good.' Perhaps she would inch Tom toward the light as he dragged her into his Darkness. They would meet somewhere in the middle of good and evil and they would dwell there together.

Hermione sat back down upon the bench opposite Betty and gave the girl an apologetic sort of smile. "Now," she said, as Betty's eyes widened, "Tell me what you think of Abraxas Malfoy."


	8. Chapter 8

January 1945

Hermione chewed delicately upon a roasted potato, half-listening to Avery and Nott discuss the merits of their favourite Quidditch squads.

"I remember when the Arrows defeated the Vratsa Vultures," Nott was saying, looking imperiously down at Avery. "It was 1932, and I was five years old. My father took me to the match and we stayed for nearly two solid days, but there was no sign it would end. We went home and came back two weeks later - they were still playing! The Arrows won, of course."

Avery shook his head vehemently and swigged pumpkin juice before asserting, "But of course there's nothing like attending a home match for the Wimbourne Wasps. We fans of their call ourselves 'Stingers' for a reason. We've got the greatest record of distracting opposing Chasers whilst taking their penalties."

"Perhaps if your team weren't creating so many penalty situations, the fans wouldn't need to buzz so very much." Nott playfully punched at Avery's shoulder, and the two boys laughed heartily. Hermione rolled her eyes and swallowed her potato, flicking her eyes to Tom as Avery asked carefully,

"My Lord? Who do you prefer?"

"Hmm?" Tom looked up from his copy of the Daily Prophet, his eyes appearing quite bored as it became evident he hadn't been listening to Avery and Nott's conversation. Avery swallowed heavily as he met Tom's eyes, and he stammered,

"I - I just wondered, My Lord, whether you preferred a specific Quidditch team."

Tom smirked and lowered his eyes back to his newspaper as he sighed, "I'm in particular favour of whichever team wins the match, Avery."

Avery and Nott laughed again then, quite nervously and too loudly. Hermione sighed quietly to herself, thinking of how everyone had treated Tom with a mixture of fear, reverence, and flat-out brown nosing since the resumption of term. They were utterly surrounded by sycophants, though of course Tom appeared to have no problem whatever with that.

"Read this, will you?" Tom pushed his newspaper into Hermione's lap and muttered his request before stabbing his fork into his eggs and chewing quietly. Hermione had taken of late to sitting with the Slytherins at meals. But she was still living in the Head Girl's dormitory next-door to Tom - at least, she was ostensibly doing so. They'd agreed to tread carefully with image. Presenting a united front was crucial, but openly antagonising Dumbledore and the conventions of Hogwarts was dangerous to the cause. They flouted rules which seemed counterproductive, and they adhered to the regulations it seemed prudent to follow. Hermione had faced little resistance from staff after moving to the Slytherin table at meals. The Slytherin Head-of-House, Slughorn, appeared to have no issue with it. Only Dumbledore scowled at them from the Head Table every breakfast, lunch, and dinner.

Hermione took the newspaper from Tom and began to read the front page. There had been several articles in the past week on the matter of Tom and on Grindelwald's death. Every day, it seemed, there was a new headline about what had happened at Nurmengard. After her first botched story, it appeared that journalist Arden Colporter had fallen neatly into line. Her subsequent writings were respectful, even edging on the boundaries of 'gushing,' when it came to Tom and what he'd done.

'MINISTRY TO GRANT AWARD FOR DEATH OF GRINDELWALD.'

Hermione sniffed lightly as she took in the headline and the moving picture below. It had been taken the day before she and Tom had left Malfoy Manor. In the photograph, Tom beamed haughtily as he shook the hand of Minister Spencer-Moon, whilst Hermione stood proudly beside him. She noticed that she looked awfully smug in the photograph. Hermione frowned and read the article below.

'For the past several weeks , wizarding Britain has anxiously awaited word from Minister for Magic Leonard Spencer-Moon. Speculation has been rife on how the Ministry would handle the killing of Gellert Grindelwald. Predictions ranged from a life sentence in Azkaban to utter silence from the top. The Minister's announcement, then, shall came as rather a shock to a great many. I sat down with him yesterday to discuss the issue at hand.

DAILY PROPHET: Minister, was there ever a point where serious consideration was given to pressing charges for Grindelwald's death?

MR SPENCER-MOON: Put simply, no. There are several reasons for this. First, there is the fact that Grindelwald died outside of the Ministry's jurisdiction. Then there is the fact that Mr Riddle, by killing Gellert Grindelwald, eliminated the single greatest existing threat to harmony in the wizarding world. There are quite a few, myself included, who are immensely grateful to Mr Riddle for eradicating the threat of Grindelwald. That's why I'm pleased to make today's announcement on behalf of myself and the Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot.

DAILY PROPHET: Can you please tell us more about the award that has been conferred upon Mr Riddle?

MR SPENCER-MOON: There are actually two awards being given to Mr Riddle. First is the Order of Merlin, First Class. As we all know, this award is granted to a witch or wizard who carries out an act of great bravery or significance. Naturally, the elimination of Grindelwald meets this qualification. I shall be honoured to confer this award to Mr Riddle. His wife, Madam Hermione Villeneuve, is to be granted the Order of Merlin, Second Class, for her own heroic deeds at Nurmengard.

DAILY PROPHET: You speak of two separate awards for Mr Riddle. What is the other?

MR SPENCER-MOON: The receipt of the title of Grand Sorcerer is a rare enough honour. But I shall be particularly pleased to make Tom Marvolo Riddle the youngest Grand Sorcerer in British history.

DAILY PROPHET: When can eager wizards and witches expect news that the awards have been officially conferred?

MR SPENCER-MOON: I myself intend to visit Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, where Mr Riddle has made the wise decision to complete his studies. I shall be traveling there this evening - no doubt the Daily Prophet will be filled with photographs and stories on the morrow.

Hermione folded the newspaper carefully and set it down upon the table. She felt rather stricken with nerves as she realised the Minister would be arriving at Hogwarts in a manner of hours. She and Tom had been made aware of the Minister's visit ten days previously, when Tom had received an owl with private correspondence from the Minister himself. Tom had written back to accept the awards, and he'd notified Headmaster Dippet that the Minister would be coming.

Hermione could still feel the terrible tension in the Headmaster's office when she'd met with Tom, Dippet, and Dumbledore to discuss the Minister's visit. Dumbledore had vehemently asserted that such a procedure would be highly irregular at Hogwarts, whilst Tom had glared and insisted that if Minister Spencer-Moon wished to come, he ought to be made welcome.

"What time are we meant to arrive, then?" Hermione asked Tom as she set down the Daily Prophet. She sipped upon her tea and heard Tom mutter,

"You and I are to be here at seven; students are welcome in at seven-thirty. You have your new dress for the occasion?"

"I do." Hermione had ordered a rush delivery from a custom clothier in wizarding Paris. In light of the effect Grindelwald had had on the war-stricken Continent, the Parisian robe-maker had sent a rather telling note with the new dress.

SVP, Acceptez cette robe gratuitement, et exprimez notre gratitude au Seigneur des Ténèbres.

'Please, accept this gown free of charge, and extend our gratitude to the Dark Lord.'

"My Lord, is there anything you might need for this evening?" Hermione heard Mulciber ask. The other boy sat across the table and down a bit, and he, too, held a copy of the Daily Prophet.

Tom flicked a weary-looking smile at Mulciber and shook his head. "I appreciate the offer, Mulciber, but I believe all is in order. Shall I see you here for the ceremony?"

Hermione suppressed a low chuckle at the way Tom expertly feigned interest in Mulciber's presence. She knew full well that Tom wouldn't care a lick whether or not Mulciber were there to watch him receive his awards. Then again, perhaps Tom did care. The recognition and admiration of those around him was critical to his ascent, she knew.

"Of course!" Mulciber was exclaiming. "We shall all be there!"

The other boys nodded emphatically. Just then, a scrawny second-year Slytherin boy appeared across from Hermione and Tom. He stood just higher than the head of Abraxas Malfoy… who was sitting down.

"Ex-excuse me, Sir." The small boy appeared terror-stricken as he trembled behind Abraxas. Hermione watched Tom turn an artificially warm smile to the boy, who continued, "My name is Jericho Burke, Sir. My grandfather is -"

"Caractacus Burke, founder and proprietor of Borgin and Burke's," Tom nodded. The small boy nodded so frantically that his mousy-brown hair shook into his eyes. He shoved it aside and said,

"That's right, Sir. In any case, I have been asked by my father and grandfather to give you a gift… to congratulate you for the awards from the Ministry."

He held out a small black velvet box to Tom, who took it very cautiously. Hermione wondered whether the box was cursed, thinking that this sort of thing would be an easy way to try to kill Tom. She silently pointed her wand at the box as Tom flicked his eyes to her. They were clearly thinking the same thing. Keeping her wand concealed beneath the table, Hermione cast a few nonverbal spells that would reveal a curse upon the jewelry box. When she was greeted with silent stillness, she nodded almost imperceptibly to Tom.

He opened the box, revealing a pair of glittering earrings. Hermione knew that Borgin and Burke's was a store which dealt not only in Dark objects, but also in ancient artefacts and old family heirlooms. She wondered with a pang of doubt where the earrings had come from. But she couldn't help finding them terribly beautiful.

Each earring had a substantial round emerald at the top, surrounded by a ring of tiny diamonds. Below, each earring boasted a large, teardrop-shaped pearl that shimmered against the velvet. Hermione raised her eyebrows at the box, knowing that the earrings possessed enormous value. Tom snapped the box shut and said smugly to Jericho Burke, "Thank you very much indeed."

Little Jericho Burke nodded again and looked a bit queasy as he appeared to struggle with a memory. "I was also meant to tell you… erm… I can't remember just what. I've a letter from my grandfather somewhere..." The small boy rifled frantically through his robes as a few of the older Slytherins sniggered quietly. Tom shot them all withering looks and they fell silent at once. Finally, Jericho Burke extracted a little scrap of parchment and read from it verbatim.

"If the Dark Lord ever has need of rare or valuable objects from Borgin and Burke's, he is welcome to borrow any, indefinitely, free of charge. The earrings are a congratulatory gift. They are known to be from the early 19th century and once belonged to the wife of Corvinus Gaunt. I believe they are now in the correct hands."

Tom's smirk broadened, and he took a sip of pumpkin juice before saying smoothly, "Please tell your father and grandfather that I am immensely grateful for their generosity. Their kindness - and yours - shall not be quickly forgotten."

He tucked the little box into his own school robes and nodded firmly, indicating to Jericho Burke that he was free to go. The boy gave a terribly awkward bow and scurried off, sending Avery and Nott into a flurry of chortles.

"Little git looks as though he needs to triple in size or so if he's to be of any use," Avery sneered, and once more Tom narrowed his eyes down the table.

"If brute force or size were the determiner of usefulness, Avery, then all of my friends would be trolls. Sometimes I wonder whether that is indeed the case."

Avery frowned, looking abashed. He and Nott mumbled apologies as Tom put his rucksack together. Hermione did the same, slipping her hand into Tom's as they rose from the table to go to lessons. The Slytherins all rose, as well, staying respectfully standing until Tom and Hermione were nearly out of the Great Hall. Hermione could practically feel their admiring, awe-filled gazes upon her back and Tom's.

She could also feel the glare of Albus Dumbledore, searing into her being like Fiendfyre.

* * *

January 1955

Lord Voldemort swirled his elf-made wine in his glass and took a deep sigh. He Vanished the glass, deciding he was not in the mood for wine just now. He and Hermione had spent a good amount of time earlier in the day bickering. She was firmly of the opinion that Voldemort needed to take stronger action regarding the Aurors who had tried to kill him.

"Maggie Prewett is not the only Auror who hates you, Tom," Hermione had hissed at him just minutes previously. There are great many of them who are alarmingly skilled with tracking and concealment. And Maggie Prewett is known to be frighteningly effective with poisons."

"She is hardly here to slip anything to me," Voldemort had said coolly, pouring himself a glass of wine as if to cement his point. Hermione's lips had hardened into a line then, and she'd seethed,

"You yourself have many spies at the Ministry. Why, then, is it unreasonable to think they might have spies here? Minister Tuft supports you as openly as she dares, but so long as the Aurors are permitted to -"

"I believe it would be patently unwise to slaughter members of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement," Voldemort had interrupted, watching Hermione's cheeks colour with anger. He'd sipped his wine and continued, "It would reflect rather poorly upon me, don't you agree? I shall take care of Maggie Prewett, and the rest of them, when I can do so without creating a backlash."

He'd known he was being prudent, that he was acting in the interests of his cause - of himself and of his followers. But he'd been rather unsurprised to see Hermione clench her fists at her sides and to hear her whisper,

"I do not trust Maggie Prewett. I spoke with her myself when she was here last. Down in the dungeons. She told me, under Veritaserum, that Albus Dumbledore suggested she kidnap Georgiana. That Georgie be used to force you to back down."

Lord Voldemort had known all of that, of course. He'd known that there was a plot to destroy him using his family as bait. He'd known that Dumbledore had suggested it, too. The old fool was so hellbent on avenging Grindelwald (who'd known the two had been so close?) that he had threatened Georgiana. Voldemort had known all of that, but seeing Hermione shake with fear and anger about it was still unpleasant.

He'd sipped his wine again and had said calmly, "Nothing is going to happen to Georgie. Nor to you. You told me yourself, Hermione, that the Prophecy was not an inevitability."

"I told you that choices could be made to keep the Prophecy from coming to pass," Hermione corrected him. She'd stormed toward the door then and had put her hand upon the knob before turning round and glaring at Voldemort. "Make the right choices, Tom."

Then she'd stormed from his office, leaving Voldemort with his half-empty glass of wine and a mostly burned-out fire in the hearth. Now Voldemort flicked his wand to build the fire back up, drumming his fingertips upon the arms of his chair. Then there was a timid knock upon his door, and Voldemort waited a moment until he was certain it wasn't Hermione. If it had been, she'd have simply barged into the office after knocking. After a silent moment, Voldemort said dully,

"Enter."

The door creaked open and Voldemort rose from his armchair, turning to see Pollux Black. A member of the distinguished House of Black, Pollux was the father of Walburga and Cygnus, two of Voldemort's most loyal adherents. There was also Alphard, a younger son who had trekked off to Australia to work on a Muggle cattle ranch the previous year. Alphard had not been openly discussed since then. As for Pollux himself, the wizard was a bulky middle-aged specimen, balding and plump with a constant look of suspicion upon his brow. He was planted in the Ministry on Voldemort's behalf, serving as Head of the Department of International Magical Cooperation.

"Good evening, Pollux," Voldemort sighed, moving to sit behind his desk and gesturing to the chair opposite him. Pollux Black gave a grateful incline of his head and sank into the chair, setting a thick envelope upon the desk before Voldemort.

"What's this?" Voldemort asked, and Pollux replied,

"It is a gift from the Minister of Magic in France… To commemorate the tenth anniversary of your being made Grand Sorcerer, My Lord." Pollux opened the envelope and pulled out a small dark blue ribbon from which a brass token dangled. He slid it across the desk to Voldemort, who picked it up as Pollux read from a letter. "With sincere gratitude for liberating France from the clutches of Gellert Grindelwald's campaign of terror. The Dark Lord is welcome in France whenever he deigns to visit our land. Signed in wholehearted friendship by Minister Isidore de Lioncourt."

Voldemort fingered the brass token and the ribbon and nodded. "So France draws near us, then," he noted, and Pollux nodded firmly.

"It would appear so, My Lord."

Voldemort opened the top right drawer of his desk and tucked the French ribbon safely inside. "I shall send the Lady to thank the French minister in person for his friendship."

"Very good, Sir." Pollux Black began to rise from his chair, but Voldemort said in a sharp clip,

"I've another matter to discuss with you."

Pollux looked uneasy as he sank slowly back down into his chair, nodding expectantly. Voldemort tapped his fingers upon his desk and sighed deeply before he asked,

"Who have we got at the Ministry with access to the Aurors?"

Pollux gulped visibly. He stammered as he flicked his eyes downward and said, "My son Cygnus is still in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, My Lord. He would, likely, be the one with closest access to an Auror. But, alas, he is currently on leave since Druella has recently birthed her third child."

"Ah, yes. I'd forgotten she was expecting. Normally my wife keeps me well-apprised of such matters." Voldemort half-smiled across the desk at Pollux, who smiled self-consciously and said,

"The little girl was born just last week, My Lord. Narcissa, they've called her."

"Lovely name," Voldemort said in a bored voice, "Though of course I'd thought all members of the Black family were named after stars."

"They've named her after the daffodil, My Lord," Pollux nodded. He shifted in his chair and said uneasily, "The Dark Lady herself suggested the name when she visited Druella and saw the child's fair hair."

Thinking of women and children reminded Voldemort why it was he'd asked about Aurors in the first place, and he gently steered the conversation back to his own ends as he said to Pollux,

"Send Cygnus to me at his earliest convenience, will you? I should like to congratulate him on the birth of his daughter… and to give him some instructions for when he returns to work."

"Of course, My Lord." Pollux Black rose from the chair and bowed. Voldemort nodded curtly, watching the other man stride from the office as he contemplated what exactly he intended to have happen to the Aurors.

Albus Dumbledore had been a fool to threaten Georgiana, Voldemort told himself. After all, Dumbledore had been the one to whom Cassandra Vablatsky had delivered the Prophecy; did the old fool not realise that by taking Georgie he would only feed Voldemort's fire? No matter, Voldemort spat silently. He did not need the Prophecy to show Dumbledore what he was capable of doing. He would protect his family and his ambition, taking out every threat he faced... starting with Maggie Prewett.

* * *

January 1945

"Oh, Hermione! You look like a dream!" Betty Cattermole was bouncing upon her feet as she helped Hermione with the silver clasps at her shoulders. Hermione looked at her reflection in the mirror and thought that her gown was positively regal. It was crafted of dark green taffeta, and magnificent swirls of silver and gold thread were embroidered around the neckline and down the fitted torso. The gown fell in an elegant shape to Hermione's feet. The floor-length cape was made of the same material as the gown, and it, too, had been embroidered with metallic thread and seed pearls. Hermione grunted a bit as the weight of the gown's cape settled, and she complained,

"This dress is too heavy!"

"No! No, it's lovely," Betty insisted. "You won't notice the weight once the ceremony begins. You'll see." She walked round Hermione in a little circle, and Hermione shifted self-consciously upon her feet. She'd brought Betty to her room to help her get ready for the Minister's visit.

The two witches had fussed with Hermione's hair and makeup for nearly an hour before Hermione finally decided that she was half-pleased with her appearance. She'd finally realised that she was agonising over the shape of her curls simply because she was nervous. So she'd shut her eyes and let Betty finish her hairstyle and carefully apply a mixture of Muggle and magical makeup.

"What sort of perfume would you like?" Betty had asked, delving her hand into her cosmetics case and pulling out a few small potions vials. "I've got rose, or jasmine, or -"

"No perfume. Thank you." Hermione had shaken her head and stared at herself in her vanity mirror. Seeing Betty furrow her brows, she clarified, "Tom prefers when… when it's just me."

"Oh." Betty had nodded, and though she'd looked rather confused, she'd said, "How terribly romantic!"

Betty straightened Hermione's cape, she sighed wistfully,

"Perhaps someday I shall have a love story like yours."

"I expect you shall, Betty." Hermione said in a kind voice. Betty would be attending the ceremony alongside Abraxas Malfoy. It pleased Hermione to see Betty falling for Abraxas; the poor girl had been wild about boys as long as Hermione had known her, but had seemed to have bad luck in love.

Hermione picked up the earrings that Jericho Burke had gifted to Tom earlier in the day, feeling grateful that they matched her gown so well. She pushed them through her ears and swallowed the lump in her throat as she looked at her reflection again. Betty appeared in the mirror beside her, her own burgundy silk dress looking terribly simple compared to Hermione's attire. But Betty showed no signs of jealousy or bitterness. She clapped her hands and squealed,

"You look like a queen!"

Hermione rolled her eyes and grinned. "Queen Hermione of Hogwarts," she drawled jokingly. But Betty's face fell serious in the mirror as she reminded Hermione,

"You're receiving the Order of Merlin tonight… and so is your husband. The Dark Lord. I think perhaps you are something of a queen, Hermione. Don't you?"

Hermione didn't answer as she turned away from the mirror and took a small, shaking breath. Mercifully, the conversation was interrupted by a soft rapping upon Hermione's bedroom door. Tom did not wait to enter, pushing the door open and stepping inside briskly. He paused, squaring his jaw and shutting the door behind him as Hermione met his eyes. They stared at one another for so long that Betty cleared her throat rather awkwardly from beside Hermione. Finally, Tom straightened his tuxedo jacket and his white bow tie and muttered,

"Miss Cattermole, would you kindly excuse us?"

"Of course, My Lord." Betty grinned like a fool and giggled quietly, bowing her head to Tom as she passed him on her way to the door. She opened the door and turned round, winking at Hermione as she stage-whispered, "Do try not to be late to your own award ceremony!"

Hermione laughed quietly as the door shut behind Betty. She turned her eyes to Tom again, noting with a twinge of amusement that his dark eyes were wide as he took her in. She watched his left hand ball into a fist at his side and release, and he licked his bottom lip before he murmured,

"The things I intend to do to you later tonight are rather unspeakable, My Lady."

"Then do not speak of them," Hermione said in a cracked whisper, as a shock of desire for him shot down her spine. She felt her cape drag a bit on the ground behind her as she walked to him. His wild eyes trailed up and down her form, absorbing the elegance of her gown, the way her hair had been carefully styled, the earrings she wore. Hermione gave him a self-conscious smile and gestured at herself, asking gently, "Will this do?"

Tom's throat bobbed as he swallowed, and he nodded silently down at Hermione. She could positively feel the want radiating from him. She shut her eyes and breathed him in, relishing the aroma of cinnamon and iron and soap and rosewood. When she opened her eyes, she felt a throbbing ache for him pulse through her veins, and she shivered when he reached to cup her face in his hands. He leaned down and kissed her lips carefully so as not to mess her lipstick. Then he whispered in a trembling voice,

"How is it that you are more beautiful each and every time I lay eyes upon you?"

Hermione felt her knees go weak then, felt dizzy with love for him, and she had to reach out to plant her hands upon Tom's chest to keep herself from swaying. Her elbow-length black satin gloves slid over his white dress shirt as she managed to whimper,

"We need to go."

"Yes." Tom nodded in agreement, but he did not move from where he stood. Hermione felt a terribly insistent throb between her thighs, and she huffed softly,

"Take me, Tom. Quickly. Right now."

"Yes," Tom said again, and he crushed Hermione's mouth in a vicious kiss with no care for her lipstick. She squealed a bit as she felt him guide her roughly toward the wall. She stumbled backward, clutching his jacket, and she let out a little oof! when her back hit the wall.

Tom's kiss was mint and honey, caramel and cinnamon, and Hermione moaned against his mouth at the taste of him. He never broke away as he reached into his jacket and pulled out his wand, fumbling until the tip jabbed Hermione's abdomen through her dress. After a moment, she felt the warm vibration of his protective spell and felt impressed that he'd been able to cast it effectively whilst kissing her. He tucked his wand away and threaded his hands up behind her ears, his fingers nesting in her hair as he drove his erection against her.

"Please hurry, Tom," Hermione begged, knowing that it would make them both look foolish if they were late to the Great Hall. She glanced at the clock above her mantle and saw that they had only ten minutes until they were expected for the ceremony. She whimpered in frustration and shook her head, insisting, "We don't have time. We'll be -"

Tom silenced her with another kiss as his fingers flew to unbutton his trousers. He pulled away from her and began hiking up her heavy gown as he growled, "If you think I'm going to stop now, you are completely mad."

"But, Tom, it's ten to seven, and we -"

"Believe me," Tom said firmly, his dark eyes glittering at her, "This will not take long."

Hermione gasped then as he wrapped his arms beneath her bum, gripped her thighs, and hoisted her up against the wall. He yanked aside the crotch of her knickers and glanced down to guide himself into her. Then suddenly she felt the invasion of his manhood, felt him hold her fast as he thrashed her hard against the wall over and over.

She moaned, ignoring the mild pain she felt as she was pummeled against the stone wall. She held onto Tom's shoulders and moved to kiss him once more. As he thrust madly into her, he groaned against her mouth. His breath came hard and fast through his nostrils, and then suddenly he tore his mouth away and pressed his forehead to hers. He stared up at her, his dark eyes glazing over as his mouth dropped open and he whispered,

"Nothing in the world feels as good as this, you know." He jerked his hips a few times and she knew he had found her release inside of her. She tumbled off her own cliff soon after, triggered by the sound of his ragged breath and the feel of his cock twitching inside of her. As she came back to Earth from her high, Hermione was gently set down upon the ground.

Her hand shook terribly as she used her wand to cleanse her body, fix her rumpled hair and her smeared makeup, and smooth the wrinkles Tom had made in her gown. Finally, she turned round to see that he'd put himself to rights, as well. His face appeared abruptly impassive and emotionless, and Hermione knew he'd switched mental gears.

As she held his arm on the way to the Great Hall, she flicked her eyes up to him and smirked. He was two men at once, she thought. He was her husband, the boy who gave her flowers and told her he loved her. He was Tom Riddle - to her, he always would be. But as they swept imperiously into the Great Hall, she knew he was also the Dark Lord.

* * *

January 1945

"Tom Marvolo Riddle, the whole of wizarding Britain has spent years living in fear of Gellert Grindelwald. Through a singular act of bravery, you have eliminated the threat that once instilled terror in the hearts of wizardkind. For conquering Gellert Grindelwald, the Ministry of Magic owes you a debt of gratitude. Therefore, it is my deepest honour to confer upon you the title of Grand Sorcerer, which is yours in perpetuity. I am also pleased to bestow upon you the Order of Merlin, First Class."

Tom pushed his shoulders back and nodded gracefully as the students and staff applauded in response to Minister Spencer-Moon's words. Then he moved to stand back a bit after the Minister pinned his award to his jacket. He flicked his eyes down at the emerald ribbon and silver medallion, and he held his hand up to silence the Hall.

"Minister Spencer-Moon," he said smoothly, plastering a charming smile upon his face, ""I thank you most sincerely, Minister, for the gifts bestowed upon me tonight. I vow to serve the Ministry of Magic in every capacity I can. I shall represent the Order of Merlin with discretion and honour."

He paused for a moment then and made himself look thoughtful. "My wife and I struck out against Gellert Grindelwald because we believed him to be single greatest threat to the security of the wizarding world. We had hoped, of course, that established wizards many years our senior might act swiftly and decisively against Grindelwald. We waited for news that he had been vanquished, but such news never came. The news we received was of a misguided but growing movement on the Continent, of slaughtered families and a prison full of innocents."

Tom watched the eyes of the assembled crowd grow wide as he spoke. Druella Rosier clutched madly to Cygnus Black, leaning forward as she hung onto Tom's every word. Even the Ravenclaws watched with rapt attention, their awestruck faces trained squarely upon Tom. He felt a swell of confidence then, realising that he had them - every last one in the room - except for Dumbledore. He glanced quickly to the Transfiguration professor at the Head Table, who was staring at Tom with a maddening lack of emotion. Tom felt his smug grin widen a bit, and he looked back to the crowd as he continued,

"My wife bravely offered to accompany me to Nurmengard. She insisted that I not take my friends, with whom I had already arranged to go. 'Spare them,' she begged me. 'We musn't waste lives in this endeavour.'" Tom reached then to clutch Hermione's hand in his, and he exchanged a little kiss with her as he said firmly, "She was instrumental in my success. She destroyed Grindelwald's Inferi; she opened the cells of Nurmengard and freed Grindelwald's prisoners."

There was another round of applause then, and Tom watched Hermione's cheeks colour scarlet as she struggled to look calm. He released her hand and began pacing a bit before the crowd, noticing that even Minister Spencer-Moon was marveling at him. Tom knew himself to be charismatic; he knew that his face and his voice and the words he chose were effective at helping him get what he wanted. But even he was pleasantly surprised by the way every eye in the Great Hall had trained upon him, gawking and marveling as he spoke.

"I did not relish taking Grindelwald's life," Tom lied, shaking his head firmly as he looked out upon the people before him. "I had hoped to simply subdue Grindelwald, to bring him to justice in a court of law." Tom lowered his voice to little more than a whisper and watched as everyone leaned in, straining to hear and seeming to hold their breath in anticipation. Tom sighed and murmured, "But once it was just the two of us - Grindelwald and myself - I quickly realised that only one spell would bring an end to Grindelwald's madness. If I close my eyes, I can still see the vivid flash of green light that burst forth from my wand."

He actually shut his eyes then, as if to illustrate his point. He breathed in deeply and opened his eyes, continuing, "And then it was over. Grindelwald's era came to a close in that dank stone room. I took his wand and it immediately responded to me, as if to crown me the one Dark Lord."

Druella Rosier looked as though she were seconds away from an orgasm. Betty Cattermole swayed where she stood, and Abraxas Malfoy clutched her shoulders firmly. A small cluster of young Hufflepuff boys looked so overwhelmed that Tom could see one of them crying. He stifled a self-satisfied laugh at the sight, managing to keep his face steely as he said,

"Grindelwald tried to use Dark magic to cloak the world in eternal night, in an endless storm of bloodlust and greed, of insanity unchecked. And, for years, the wizarding world let him do it. I refused to do so. I refused to see the world mired in the chaos Grindelwald wrought. I long, instead, for a new morning. For a vibrant sunrise of prosperity, unity, and peace."

Tom waited as more applause ripped through the Great Hall, thundering off the walls and ceilings as those assembled were whipped into a bit of a frenzy. He flicked his eyes to Hermione, saw the way she was staring at him as though he had suddenly turned bubblegum pink. Then he looked to Dumbledore and saw unmitigated fear and loathing in the old fool's pale eyes. Fed by the reactions around him, Tom turned to Hermione once more and planted a chaste kiss upon her forehead.

Hours later he lay beside her in bed, naked and exhausted after making love to her three times in a row. He'd been intensely aroused by what had happened in the Great Hall, and upon returning to his room he'd plundered Hermione until she finally cried out for mercy.

Now they lay curled up in his bed, and Tom felt his heart thudding inside his chest. He was drunk off of the admiration he'd been shown, off of the power that had surged through him. Hermione sighed and whispered,

"They adored you."

"Of course they did," Tom replied. Though he had been serious, he felt Hermione giggle against his chest. Tom scowled down at her and demanded, "What's so funny?"

Her warm brown eyes crinkled with a smile as she looked at him. "You don't have to win me over," she reminded him. "You can relax now."

"I ploughed you into the mattress until we both nearly fainted, and I am anything but relaxed," Tom informed her, his voice a tight clip. She laughed again and urged him to lie flat upon his back. Then she curled her fingers against his jaw and planted a soft kiss upon his lips, sending a shiver down Tom's arms.

"There are many ways to relax," she informed him. "Here. Lie upon your stomach."

She pulled gently on his shoulder so that he would roll over. Tom felt a bit confused as he put his forearms beneath his face and sighed against the mattress.

"My heart is still racing," he said crossly, but then he felt a gentle pressure on the mattress as Hermione moved to straddle his rear. He was about to ask her what the blazes she was doing, but then he felt the tip of her wand gliding over the expanse of his back. There was a pleasant sensation, warm and slick, as if she'd cast an invisible coating of oil onto him. Then her hands were upon him, massaging his shoulder blades and neck and all down his spine. Tom moaned softly and felt his face relax into the mattress.

She touched him for a great long while, until Tom felt himself drifting in and out of sleep. Finally, he felt her crawl off of him, and he was jolted back to reality.

"Better?" Hermione asked as he arranged himself on his side to face her again. He nodded gratefully, reaching out to brush a wild lock of hair from her face. She smiled gently and whispered, "Even I was almost afraid of you."

"I don't ever want you to be afraid of me," Tom said truthfully. He kissed her for a while, gently and slowly, savouring the sweet taste of her. "The rest of them can cower in fear; they can prostrate themselves. They will feel what I want them to feel. But you…" He brushed his lips against her cheekbone, just under her eye, and heard her whimper softly. "You mustn't fear me. I love you too much for that."

He lay upon his back then and felt Hermione curl up onto him once more. His heart had steadied in his chest and his breath was no longer rickety with arousal. He shut his eyes and was about to descend into a deep sleep when he murmured,

"Hermione?"

"Hmph?" She sounded as though she, too, were moments from sleep. Tom petted her hair and said, "No matter what I accomplish for the rest of my life, Hermione, marrying you will always be my greatest triumph."

* * *

January 1945

Hermione's eyes flickered open as she stared at the moonlight wall beside her, listening to the frustrated huffs that had woken her. She was so weary after the long night of award-receiving and socialising that she considered simply falling back to sleep, but then she heard Tom swear under his breath.

"What's wrong?" she asked in a groggy, cracked whisper. There was a moment of stillness, awkward and heavy, and then she heard Tom mutter,

"I find myself rather unable to sleep. Bit worked up. I'm sorry I woke you."

Hermione furrowed her brows, now quite curious. She spun slowly beneath the blankets until she was facing him, and she asked,

"What do you mean, 'worked up?'"

But before Tom could answer her, her eyes trained to the obvious tenting in the blanket at his hips. He was visibly aroused there, and as she flicked her gaze up to his face, she could see that his chest rising and falling with shallow breaths.

Hermione sat up a bit, leaning upon her left elbow as she reached to drag her fingertips around Tom's bare chest. He shivered and twitched beneath her touch, wrenching his eyes shut. He growled at her,

"That is not helping the situation."

Hermione laughed a bit then. She pressed her palm to his heart and shut her eyes, feeling the steady, rapid thumping there. "You've been thinking about earlier tonight," she guessed, opening her eyes again to look at him. "You've been thinking about the way they all stared at you, wide-eyed with amazement and admiration. And you liked it, didn't you? You like the way they stared all at you. Listened to you. Went weak for you."

Tom gritted his teeth and squared his jaw. "I was merely thinking of the three times earlier tonight that I plundered your body," he insisted. "And I woke from something of an… erotic… dream, if I'm honest."

Hermione licked her lips and nodded. "But why did you take me earlier?" she asked in a sly voice. When Tom didn't answer, she said, "You were 'worked up' then, too, Tom. By the power you'd felt flow through you in the Great Hall. It can be addictive, can't it? Arousing. To be loved like that."

Tom opened his eyes, shifting his hips uncomfortably upon the mattress. His erection caused the blanket to fall back a bit, baring the lines and angles of his pelvis. Hermione suppressed her own arousal long enough to focus on teasing Tom. It would be fun, she thought suddenly, to drive him mad with want. Earlier that night, they'd made love for over an hour, but each time had felt mechanical as Tom thrust the tension out of his body. This time, Hermione thought, she would show him that she could be powerful, too.

She sat up and faced him, drawing her hands up his ribcage and sending another fierce shiver through him. Then she reached for her wand from the bedside table and cast a protective spell upon herself. Tom grunted a bit as he realised she meant to satisfy him, and Hermione tried not to laugh aloud. He had no idea what she meant to do to him.

She pulled his hands up above his head, encouraging him to keep his wrists together, and she bent to kiss his neck. As she did, he writhed a bit upon the sheets and groaned quietly. Hermione pushed his wrists back against the headboard with one hand, surreptitiously aiming her wand with the other.

Incarcerous, she thought, and suddenly Tom's hands were bound to the bed by Conjured cords. He gasped angrily as Hermione sat up, scowling at her cheeky grin as he huffed,

"I did not ask you to tie me up. Take off the cords."

Hermione quirked an eyebrow at him and set her wand back upon the bedside table. "You are certainly powerful enough to release them yourself. I've seen you do wandless magic a dozen times over. If you want to break the binds, by all means, do so."

She ran her hands over his bare torso lightly, as if to illustrate that he ought to prefer leaving the cords around his wrists. Sure enough, Tom swallowed and looked angry, but did nothing to release his hands. Hermione kept her eyes trained on his as she dragged back the blankets atop him. She licked her lips and wrapped one hand around his cock. It jumped at her touch, sending a shockwave of desire through her.

"So hard for me," Hermione mused in a delicate whisper. She moved her hand up and drew her thumb around the tip as she stared intensely at Tom. His dark eyes had glazed over a bit and his jaw had gone slack. Hermione moved her hand on him at a leisurely pace, and she murmured comfortingly, "Don't worry. I'll make it feel so good that you beg me for more."

"A Dark Lord does not beg," Tom sneered then, though he wrenched his eyes shut and his breath quickened.

"No? Let's find out whether or not that's true." Hermione grinned crookedly down at Tom and kept touching him. She knew she was on a knife's edge. Tom was volatile, to say the least, even with her. He might go from playful to enraged at a moment's notice, and Hermione was pushing him. Deliberately.

While he still had his eyes shut, Hermione moved to straddle his thighs. She settled lightly upon him with his manhood nestled in front of her. She ground herself against him, moaning softly at the way his shaft rubbed the outside of her womanhood. She fondled the tip again, and Tom bucked his hips upward.

"I could sit here all night, just like this," Hermione teased, stilling her hands on him and pushing his shaft against her form. Tom's eyes flew open and shone with anger as he snarled,

"You won't, though. You're going to climb onto it and ride it until you're buckled over with pleasure."

Hermione grinned. "Is that so?" she asked. "That's quite a roundabout way of begging, Mr Riddle."

"I am not begging," Tom seethed. "I am informing you as to what's going to happen. You are going to ride me until we both finish, and then we shall both go back to bed."

"Only one of us is tied up just now," Hermione reminded him. Then, with a light sigh, she moved to crawl off of him and said, "You know, now that you mention it, sleep does sound awfully good. I think I shall sleep!"

She arranged herself on her side, cuddling into her pillow, and said smoothy, "Goodnight, Tom."

He grunted and pulled at the ropes she'd Conjured. Hermione shut her eyes and tried not to giggle, knowing that Tom was far too distracted by his arousal to perform wandless magic. He was stuck tied to the bed.

"Get rid of the ropes, Hermione," he said firmly, and Hermione faked a yawn and said,

"You're powerful enough to do it yourself."

There was a brief silence before Tom's voice said softly, "Hermione, please remove the cords from my wrists so that I may lie beside you and gently make love to you until we both dissolve into post-coital puddles of satisfaction."

Hermione laughed then, at his manipulative words. She grabbed her wand, rolled over, and sighed. "Very well. Relashio."

The cords round Tom's wrists broke and fell away, and he immediately pulled his hands down and rubbed at his skin. He glared at Hermione and said in a dangerous voice,

"I'm not a man to be teased, Hermione. Not even by you."

Her smile vanished then, and she swallowed heavily. She honestly had no idea whether or not Tom was being serious. It didn't matter; it was terribly erotic either way. His voice was a low purr and his gaze sliced like a dagger as he moved to push Hermione onto her back and hovered atop her.

"You may be a very powerful witch," he admitted, "and you may be my wife, but that does not mean I wish to be made to play the fool by you."

"I'm sorry," Hermione whispered, feeling a crater of dread open inside her. She swallowed the lump rising in her throat, uncertain whether to be aroused by or frightened of Tom. She realised she was both; he was terribly beautiful in his anger, but, she knew, also terribly dangerous.

Then Tom was urging her knees apart and pushing himself into her body, and Hermione absently wished she'd simply ridden him to an orgasm like he'd demanded. Now she lay beneath his rigid form as he pumped steadily into her. His dark eyes glared down at her, inches away as he lowered himself onto his elbows atop her. She felt his chest press against hers, felt his pelvis grinding her sensitive nub, and her eyes fluttered shut helplessly. Hermione grasped at the sheets and moaned, unable to look at his devastatingly handsome face as he thrust steadily into her.

She realised then that she was just as turned on by his dominant nature as he was. It had seemed fun, of course, to tie him up and tell him he would beg her for release. But it was all wrong; Tom Riddle did not beg for anything. He simply took what he wanted. And, as ashamed as it made her, Hermione found that degree of confidence to be utterly erotic.

"Take me, Tom," she heard herself whisper, feeling her breasts sway up and down as Tom drilled steadily against her. He ground his hips harder and grunted, and Hermione knew that he liked it when she spoke to him that way. Her cheeks flushed, both from pleasure and humiliation, as she loathed and worshipped the power dynamic between them.

"Pretty little thing," Tom was panting, and Hermione opened her eyes as he squeezed roughly at her breast. His eyes glittered down at her, predatory and piercing, and he snarled, "So pretty, and so willing, and you're all mine, aren't you?"

"Yes." Hermione despised herself for the way she grew more wet from Tom's talking. Her head nodded quite of its own accord, and she whispered desperately, "Yes. I'm yours. Please, Tom… Please!"

She had no idea what she was begging him for then, but she kept saying it over and over. Please, Tom. Please. Her eyes clamped shut and she felt a warm flush sweep over her. Her ears began to ring and suddenly the room felt tiny and overheated. Between her thighs, the steady pistoning of Tom's cock felt like delicious torture, pushing her ever nearer the edge of the cliff.

"I want you to watch me while I fill you," she heard Tom command her, and she forced her eyes open and reached to clutch at his shoulders. Suddenly Tom's thrusts became faster, deeper, with more force behind them. Hermione moaned continuously, feeling intensely stimulated by the way he ground himself against her nub.

"Please, Tom!" she whispered again, still not certain what she wanted. Then she tumbled into her climax, rather unexpectedly. She cried out and arched her back, pressing her breasts to Tom's chest as her womanhood clamped rhythmically around him. He bucked his hips a few times in response and let out a feral growl.

"Bloody hell, Hermione!" he exclaimed, shoving himself hard against her as his warm seed pumped into her. Hermione felt his cock twitch and pulse within her, and she let her hands trail around to clutch at Tom's back. Finally, he pulled his softening member from her and there was an obscene leaking sensation as his seed trickled out of her.

"I think…" Hermione panted a few moments later, yawning as she struggled to stay awake, "I think I should like a bath."

She made to rise from the bed, but Tom yanked her firmly back and urged her to curl up atop him. "It's two-thirty in the morning," he informed her matter-of-factly. "You may bathe before breakfast. I wish to fall asleep with you beside me."

Hermione resisted the urge to give him a sarcastic glare and tell him she could bathe whenever she damned well pleased. But she knew he was basking in an entire night of dominance - not just over her, but over everyone in the Great Hall, too. And she knew it would be unwise on so many levels to emasculate him now. She shoved aside her fierce internal resistance to submission and rested her head on his chest. She felt his fingers drift over her hair as they both fell asleep. At some point, his hand stilled as he nodded off. Hermione did not move from him. He was right. She could wash herself of their sex in a few hours.

* * *

February 1945

For as long as he could remember, Tom Riddle had loathed Valentine's Day. It had always seemed to him to be a day of eyeroll-inducing, nauseating displays of sentimentality. Girls cried if they received chocolates. They cried if they received nothing. All day long on Valentine's Day, all Tom could see were dozens of nervous boys and hyper-emotional females. It was sickening.

But this year he realised that he would be something of an idiot not to observe the day, at least to some degree. Privately, he reassured himself. He would give Hermione a token of his affection privately, as befit his station as Dark Lord.

When Tom arrived in the Great Hall for breakfast, he noticed two things at once. First, that the Hall was nearly empty owing to how early he'd risen that morning. Second, that the enchanted ceiling was raining little pink-and-red hearts, which dissolved before they hit the tables, whilst obnoxious banners and streamers were thrown about the rafters. Tom wrinkled his nose as he sat down at the Slytherin table, disgusted with the lurid display of 'romance.'

He had far more important things with which to concern himself than arrow-shooting cherubim or lace-bedecked greeting cards. If he needed to be charming, to be romantic, Tom Riddle did not require such props.

He grimaced as his breakfast appeared at the table. The scones had been dyed pink by the House-Elves, he saw, and the fried eggs had been shaped into hearts. Rolling his dark eyes and scoffing, Tom stabbed a fork into a sausage and chewed crossly. He watched as students began to slowly filter into the Great Hall; Abraxas Malfoy, Avery, and Nott were the first three to arrive at the Slytherin table.

"Morning," Tom greeted in a bored voice. The other three mumbled greetings and nodded respectfully, only sitting down when Tom gestured to the bench opposite him. Avery and Nott, as per usual, were animatedly arguing about some trifling matter. Tom ignored them and focused instead on how jittery Abraxas Malfoy seemed. The blond-haired, hulking boy spilled pumpkin juice as he tried to pour himself a glass; his hand was shaking so fiercely that the pitcher slipped and hit the table. Avery and Nott leapt up and started swearing loudly, swiping napkins across their juice-splattered robes and scowling at Abraxas. Tom wordlessly flicked his wand a few times and erased the mess from the table. Once again he marveled for a moment at how easily and completely Grindelwald's wand reacted to his magic. Then, as the other boys gratefully settled back into their seats, Tom flicked an eye up at Abraxas and asked nonchalantly,

"Is there some reason you are so nervous this morning, Malfoy? Anything I ought to know about?"

He tried to sound non -confrontational, but it was easy to feel paranoid these days. In the wake of his acceptance speech the night of the Minister's visit, Tom had gained more followers than ever and felt a bit like a deity walking the corridors of Hogwarts. But he was not fool enough to assume universal acclaim, and he carefully monitored the behaviours and words of those around him. To see Abraxas Malfoy acting so fidgety was a bit unnerving. But Malfoy gulped heavily and lowered his eyes to the table.

"I apologise, My Lord," he began quietly. "I admit I feel a bit skittish this morning. I intend on telling Betty today that I'm in love with her."

There was a tiny silence, and then Avery and Nott erupted into uproarious laughter. Abraxas Malfoy's cheeks reddened and he hissed,

"There is nothing funny about it! She'll be terribly cross if I don't make today special, you know."

"Ha!" Avery slapped his knee. "She'll be 'terribly cross,' will she? And why, exactly, are you so wound up about a girl's emotions, Malfoy? Going soft, are we?"

Malfoy's frown deepened as he gnawed upon a lurid pink scone, and he muttered firmly, "You'd care how a girl felt, too, Avery, if you were so close to getting in her knickers."

Tom rolled his eyes again and sighed loudly, causing the three boys opposite him to look at him in surprise. Tom crossed his arms over his chest and complained, "So is this my fate for today, then? I'm to be subjected to the constant hand-wringing and whining of lovestruck children?"

"You've already got a wife," Abraxas said rather snidely. Tom raised his eyebrows at the insubordinate tone, but Malfoy was still staring at his plate as he continued with a pout, "Didn't seem as though you had to try too terribly hard to get her, either. I seem to recall the rest of us betting on who could get Hermione's knickers off first, and you being rather upset about that. Suppose now I know that you'd already claimed her."

Tom flew to his feet before he knew what was happening. He jabbed his wand into the air before him and pointed it straight at Abraxas Malfoy's wide eyes as he seethed, "Fall upon your knees, Malfoy, and start apologising."

Malfoy trembled in terror and pressed his palms to the table frantically. He rose on shaking legs and begged, "Forgive me, My Lord. I forgot myself…"

"Yes, you did. Now, I told you to kneel. Cadet flexis!" A little purple light flew from the tip of Tom's wand and hit Malfoy's knees. Abraxas collapsed so quickly that there was a sickening crack as his knees hit the stone floor. Tom briskly swept around the Slytherin table, ignoring the way that Avery and Nott were staring in horror at the scene. His wand - Grindelwald's wand - shook a bit as he struggled to control his face and words. He glared down to where Abraxas Malfoy knelt, and he said through clenched teeth, "How dare you speak to me in such a fashion? How dare you speak of my wife that way? Just who, exactly, do you suppose you are?"

"I might ask the same of you, Mr Riddle."

Tom looked up at the sound of Dumbledore's ever-calm murmur. He lowered his wand and gave a dark laugh as he sighed, "You know who I am, sir. I was just making Mr Malfoy here aware of it, too."

"I do know who you are," Dumbledore agreed, tipping his head a bit and flicking his eyes from Abraxas to Tom. "You are the Head Boy of this school, are you not? And, at this moment, you are setting rather a poor example with behaviour."

Dumbledore gave Tom a meaningful look over the rim of his half-moon spectacles, sending a shiver of rage through Tom's veins. Tom gave Dumbledore a sarcastic nod and turned once more to Abraxas Malfoy.

"Mr Malfoy," he said tightly, "I do apologise for my momentary loss of self-control. I only wish you had not spoken so explicitly about my wife's knickers, so that I would not have felt so very compelled to defend her honour. Please do take your seat."

Malfoy nodded, a flash of terrified shame crossing his face. He rose slowly from his knees and slid back onto the Slytherin bench.

"Ah, yes. Honour," Dumbledore said knowingly. He clasped his hands in front of his abdomen and said thoughtfully, "I have seen many men do admirable things in the name of honour. Of course, men do foolish things in the name of honour, as well. It isn't just you, my boy."

Dumbledore gave Tom a rather sickly smile as he patted Tom's shoulder and started to walk away. Tom flinched at Dumbledore's touch and recoiled, watching the old fool retreat back to the Head Table as he shook with anger. He looked then from Malfoy to Avery to Nott, seeing the way each of them regarded him with intense fear. He tucked his wand into his robes and huffed,

"Malfoy, tell Professor Sycorax that I'm a bit unwell today, will you?" he requested. "I don't suppose I feel much like going to Charms."

"Of course, My Lord." Malfoy nodded and lowered his eyes to the table. He and the other two boys rose and waited in reverent silence as Tom stormed from the Great Hall, his school robes flapping behind him like the wings of a bat.

* * *

February 1977

"You both did a fine job holding yourselves together during the ceremony." Hermione smiled and raised her wine glass to Betty Malfoy and Druella Black. She sighed and looked out upon the dance floor, taking a deep draught of wine before saying, "It can't be easy to watch your child pledge themselves to somebody else."

"It is difficult," Druella admitted. Then she laced her arm through Betty's and grinned as she continued, "But the 'loss' of a daughter is entirely ameliorated by the addition of a son. I am confident that Lucius will be a fine match for Narcissa."

The three women watched the couples swaying and twirling on the dance floor for a long moment. Hermione was just old enough that her bones had begun creaking, but not so old that she did not long to dance. She wondered absently whether or not Tom would take her out on the floor tonight.

"Perhaps, My Lady, you shall soon enough be in our shoes," Druella said then. She raised her wine glass and nodded her head toward one particular couple. "The Lady Georgiana seems most enthralled with Bilius Weasley."

Hermione laughed then, watching her daughter twirl and giggle in the arms of the lighthearted Bilius. "They're only friends," Hermione said wistfully. "I think they'd make a fine couple, but Georgie continues to insist it's only friendship."

"Ah, well…" Betty Malfoy said lightly, "Probably for the best. Bilius Weasley seems a bit wild at heart."

"He is. That's why he'd be perfect for Georgie." Hermione laughed again as she watched Georgiana toss her head back and laugh merrily. Bilius Weasley was staring at her with undisguised attraction, and Hermione could not erase the grin that settled upon her countenance at the sight.

"Good evening, My Lord," Druella said suddenly, and Hermione was jolted from her reverie by the sight of Tom striding over to the group. Even at fifty years of age, Tom looked awfully good in formalwear, Hermione thought. Perhaps especially at fifty. He'd only managed to grow more handsome with time. Hermione cleared her throat a bit as Betty and Druella curtsied to Tom. He bowed his head and said in a charming voice,

"Madam Black. Madam Malfoy. Allow me to extend my most sincere congratulations. Your children, I am certain, will live long and prosperous lives together."

"Thank you, My Lord," murmured Druella, lowering her eyes into her glass of wine. Tom turned his eyes to Hermione then, holding out his hand and asking,

"My dearest Lady, would you be so good as to grant me a dance?"

Hermione handed her wine to Betty, who took it eagerly. Hermione muttered some thanks to Betty as she took Tom's hand and let him lead her away. Once they had settled into a smooth waltz, she saw Tom flick his eyes to where Georgiana was laughing with Bilius Weasley.

"I seem to recall telling you I loved you for the first time while we danced," Tom said in a low, thoughtful voice. Hermione quirked up a little smile as she glanced over to Georgie, and she corrected him,

"We stopped dancing for a moment, as I recall. Just long enough for you to declare your love and then kiss me ferociously."

"Hm. Well, I hope that doesn't happen tonight," Tom admitted. "I've no interest in watching young Mr Weasley assault my daughter in such a way."

"Assault? Is that what it was?" Hermione joked. She let Tom turn them a bit as they danced, and she raised an eyebrow up at him. "I had rather thought it was a beautiful instant between two young souls very much in love."

"I did love you. Very much." Tom nodded down at Hermione, his dark eyes glittering a bit. "I loved you beyond anything I had imagined possible."

"And now?" Hermione asked rather breathlessly, her eyes widening a bit.

"And now I love you so fiercely that it hurts," Tom said smoothly. "I love you far more now than I did then. And I shall love you more tomorrow."

* * *

February 1945

Toward the end of February, the seventh-year students began murmuring among one another about their plans after Hogwarts. Even in 'her' time, Hermione had to admit that she had never given much thought to life after school. The thought of a 'nine-to-five' job had seemed so very tragically mundane compared to constant study. She had always thought, rather impractically, that her life would consist of endless reading and writing and examinations. Perhaps, Hermione had sometimes considered, she would go on to advanced coursework to prepare for life as a teacher or professor.

But, no, she thought. She might become frustrated as an ordinary teacher - frustrated by a typical student's inability to comprehend even the most simple task or concept. She did become frustrated by that, even as a student. How was she meant to be patient as a teacher?

Perhaps she would be a librarian, free to read books all day. But, no. Librarians' days were spent shelving books and scolding the denizens of the libraries, not reading. Perhaps she would work for the Ministry, then, Hermione thought. Perhaps she would work for the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, as an Auror.

That thought made Hermione laugh aloud. She'd used Dark magic when she'd been complicit in the death of Gellert Grindelwald. She was both ally and wife to Tom Riddle, also known as Lord Voldemort. And, if she was honest with herself, there was a growing Darkness in her own soul that would make a life in Magical Law Enforcement downright laughable as a career path.

One day toward the end of March, Hermione strode into the Potions classroom arm-in-arm with Betty Cattermole, listening to the blond-haired girl chatter away about how she wanted to work for Witch Weekly. That, Hermione reckoned, was one career path she certainly didn't want. But she nodded absently as Betty blathered away, giving an occasional sound of assent.

"I think I could be an advice columnist, or… or perhaps I could write on the latest fashions in robes and cosmetics spells," Betty was droning. Hermione nodded. Betty gasped and sent Hermione jumping, and Betty said excitedly, "Or! Or I might be able to be a correspondent for the latest and greatest in the magical music scene! I might be able to meet Orsino And The Bears in person!"

Hermione rolled her eyes and scoffed lightheartedly at Betty's girlish excitement. "Oh, yes. I think Abraxas would just love that," she said, and Betty giggled.

"Well, I've applied to the magazine just in case," she told Hermione as the girls settled into a desk. Hermione had taken to working with Betty sometimes in Potions, to allow Tom to mingle with his followers sufficiently. Besides, she needed friends besides her husband. She spread out her Potions supplies and turned to Betty with a warm smile.

"I hope you get the position, Betty."

"I suppose you won't be applying for anything after Hogwarts," Betty said very softly, her expression going serious all of a sudden. Hermione frowned. She hadn't been very certain about life after Hogwarts in the 1990s, but now she had positively no idea of what to do. She'd discussed it with Tom, once or twice. He'd been firm in telling her that, as his Dark Lady, she had no need of employment. She'd accused him of misogyny, of wanting her 'barefoot in the kitchen,' but he'd cocked an eyebrow at her and informed her that she was going to be too busy helping him rule over the wizarding world to work in Diagon Alley.

But Tom wasn't ruling the wizarding world yet. As far as Hermione knew, he'd secured some funding commitments from dedicated wealthy families, and the Malfoys had promised to let him and Hermione lodge in Malfoy Manor after graduation while building support for Tom's cause. But Hermione was still rather confused as to just what that cause was. Did Tom still want to eradicate Muggle-borns, as he'd wanted to do in the time Hermione had left? She didn't think so, but his aims seemed more nebulous now. It seemed he just wanted power, that he just wanted to unite the wizarding world under the banner of his charisma, under the 'cause' of unity and 'harmony,' whatever that meant. Hermione was so uncertain of what she was helping Tom achieve that it often put a pit in her stomach.

She gulped and shoved aside her nausea as she said quietly to Betty, "After we leave Hogwarts, I intend on helping Tom, of course."

"Yes, of course." Betty nodded. "That's Abraxas' plan, too, you know. He's going to be right by the Dark Lord's side, however he's needed."

It was still rather odd to hear Betty refer to Tom that way, at least in the incarnation with which Hermione had fallen in love. She sighed and nodded, flashing Betty a grateful smile.

"You and Abraxas are loyal friends. Believe me, it's noticed."

"By a great many people," came a tight voice from behind them. Hermione and Betty whirled round to see Maggie Prewett scowling as she laid out her own Potions supplies. She tossed her red waves over her shoulder and glared up at Hermione, who narrowed her eyes and said,

"I don't believe we were speaking to you, Maggie."

"You weren't," Maggie shrugged. "But it's common knowledge that Abraxas Malfoy and Betty Cattermole prostrate themselves at the feet of the boy who calls himself 'Lord Voldemort.'"

She said the name as if it were a joke, putting her hands up and waving them about as she rolled her eyes. Betty slammed down her stirring stick on the desk and seethed as she said to Maggie,

"Don't you dare speak that name."

"What name?" Maggie challenged, raising one red eyebrow and crossing her arms. "Lord Voldemort?" She looked from Betty to Hermione and snorted derisively. "Tom Riddle is nothing but a little boy with a rather sad complex, Hermione. Unfortunately, he's already committed murder with that complex. I'd advise the both of you to run while you still can."

Hermione felt her heart thumping in her chest. There was a lot to process just now. First of all, she hadn't been entirely aware that Tom's followers had already become intimidated by speaking the name 'Voldemort.' That revelation in itself sent her pulse flying. Then there was the reinforcement of just how much Maggie Prewett hated Tom - and, by extension, Hermione herself.

"We were only discussing Betty's aspirations to work for Witch Weekly, Maggie," Hermione said calmly, trying to diffuse a situation that felt like it was too-quickly turning dangerous. She turned round and said, "No need to escalate an innocent conversation about life after Hogwarts."

She began setting up her scales, but froze as Maggie said from behind her, "Yes. I'm sure all our lives will be perfectly innocent after Hogwarts. You'll be the wife of a murderous manic, Betty will give advice on makeup, and as for me? I've been preliminarily accepted into the Auror training programme, so make of that what you will."

She sniffed lightly and started humming a strange tune. Hermione pinched her lips and glanced over to Betty, shaking her head and staying silent for the rest of the lesson.

* * *

March 1945

The cold rain which had been falling all day had taken its toll on Hermione. By the time she slipped into the shower in Tom's room, she relished the warm water more than she could say. She turned the porcelain handles and the water slowly juttered out of the faucet. Hermione was beginning to forget what technology - Muggle and wizarding alike - had been like during 'her' time. This was her time now, she realised. The wizarding world hadn't changed much except for fashion, but things like Muggle televisions seemed like a bizarre dream now.

Hermione stripped off her robes and banished them to the bedroom outside, climbing into the shower and starting to hum. Tom was off meeting with his Slytherin cronies, she knew. In particular, he was using the school-aged boys to manipulate fathers and uncles into providing shelter, funds, and followers for once Tom graduated school. Hermione had found that it was sometimes best to stay out of those meetings, when she perceived that the testosterone levels in the room would fail to benefit from her presence. Other times, she thought her voice of reason was welcome and necessary.

Tonight, she just wanted a warm shower to wash away the chilly day. So she shampooed her hair and luxuriated in the hot stream of water for quite some time, humming away merrily. Then, before she had any idea what was happening, there was a sharp pain on the back of her leg as if she had been shot by a gun.

Hermione shrieked and jumped and nearly slipped. She whirled round and screamed harder when she saw that there was a snake, dark grey and shockingly long, winding its way along the tile floor of the shower. It lunged forward and lashed at Hermione's leg again, its teeth sinking painfully into her flesh once more. Hermione leapt from the shower without turning it off, scrambling for her wand on the vanity. She slipped and fell on the bathroom floor, crying out as the snake followed her and bit once again. She finally managed to reach up for her wand from the vanity and pointed it at the snake.

"STUPEFY!" she screamed. It was hardly the most appropriate spell, and there were better ways to get rid of snakes, but Hermione thought it would be best to Stun the thing and see whether Tom could use Parseltongue to figure out what it was... and why it had attacked Hermione in her bathroom. She scrambled to her feet, staring back in horror at the unconscious snake, and she slammed the bathroom door shut as she made her way naked into Tom's bedroom.

Then, suddenly, the pain in her legs started searing like fire, and Hermione howled in agony. She fell to her knees and held her wand up with a shaking hand.

"Ac-Accio Anti-Venom!" she cried desperately, but she felt herself starting to lose consciousness before anything arrived in the Head Boy's room. The room was spinning; her ears were hot and she felt horribly nauseated. She vomited on the floor next to her and was terrified to see a creeping web of black emanating from each snake bite wound.

"Oh, Tom," she whispered, "please come back."

Then the room went dark and silent, and the last thing Hermione felt was her wand clattering from her hand.

* * *

March 1945

Tom smirked as he strode confidently down the Armoury Corridor. He gently shook the satchel in his left hand, relishing its weight. He figured the bag contained about fifty Galleons, and he was very much looking forward to adding the money to the fortune he'd begun amassing. This particular money had been given to him by Mulciber; it had been sent by his father after the younger Mulciber had sent letters convincing elder family members of Tom's worth.

"Tell them that I mean to bring all wizards together under the common goal of strength and unity against Muggle oppression," Tom had told Mulciber one day, and the boy had scribbled out a note. Tom had paced behind Mulciber's desk and continued, "Tell them I mean to create a singular system wherein all of wizardkind functions in unity, harmony, and efficiency."

Mulciber had paused, frowned, and looked up from his letter. "And how is that different from what Grindelwald wanted?" he'd asked in confusion.

"It's different," Tom had snarled, "because Grindelwald had no idea how to properly implement such goals. Grindelwald was a soft-minded fool. I am no fool. Tell them that."

A few days later, fifty or so Galleons had arrived, along with pledges of loyalty for Tom's cause. Now Tom strode down the Armoury Corridor with something of a bounce in his step, happy to inform Hermione that he had great confidence in their life after Hogwarts.

But as he neared his bedroom, a terrible sinking feeling started to come over him. Something was wrong, he realised. He had no idea what was wrong, but something drove him to sprint the final ten steps to the room. He raised his wand with five steps remaining and unwarded the door, sending it flinging open. He dashed inside and hurled himself to his knees when he saw Hermione lying crumpled and naked in the middle of the floor.

"No. No, no, no," he whispered, roughly pulling her into his lap and hastily checking for a pulse. Her heart was beating, though weakly. She was breathing - barely. Tom glanced over her naked form and quickly realised there were bites upon her legs. Snake bites. Then he flicked his eyes up to the closed bathroom door and saw the shadow, moving slowly back and forth in the light beneath the doorway.

There was no time for that now, Tom thought. He would have to confront the snake later. Now, right now, Hermione needed Anti-Venom, and he had none. He felt sick to his stomach as he yanked off his outer school robe and wrapped it sloppily around Hermione's bare body. He could have levitated her with his wand, he supposed, but for whatever reason he felt compelled to carry her. She felt as though she weighed nothing at all in his arms as he cradled her, rising to his feet and dashing from the room.

He ran, glancing down at her frighteningly pale face from time to time as he ascended staircases and careened through corridors. Some part of his brain heard portraits whispering frantically as he passed them, and a little bit of him was grateful it was the middle of the night and that the corridors were empty.

At some point he reached the Hospital Wing and handed Hermione over to a very perplexed-looking Medi-Witch, mumbling something about snake bites and Anti-Venom. Then he ran back to the Head Boy's room and flung open the door to his bathroom, trying desperately to catch his breath as he pointed his wand at the black snake in the middle of the floor.

"Simi hi baenais?" Tom hissed, narrowing his eyes at the snake. His question might have been innocent enough in English, for all it meant was, 'Who sent you?'The serpent's bobbing motion slowed at once, and it rose up in a docile fashion. Then a familiar sound - Parseltongue - emerged from the snake.

"De kabanais dasin... sssaifa! De sporre korenais basi dasin... ssssaifa!"

Tom shook his head in frustration. The snake had just told him that it had been put in the room by 'some fool' who had hoped the snake would kill the room's inhabitant. So someone had been trying to kill him, then. It had to have been an assassination attempt on Tom's life, seeing as it was his room and now Hermione's. Besides, Tom was the one publicly declaring himself to be a Dark Lord.

"Hi kabanais dasin Dumbledore?" Tom asked quickly, positing whether or not it had been Albus Dumbledore to put the snake in his room. After all, Dumbledore would have had access to the Head Boy's room where a student would not. But the snake did not answer for a long moment. Tom asked again, more aggressively, "Hi kabanaisss dasssin Albusss Dumbledore?"

"Na orilae... ba kadas saifa."

Tom frowned. 'Now that I think on it,' The snake had just said in Parseltongue, 'The fool who put me here was a female human.'

The fact that the snake was being so evasive about names meant that it did not know any names. Of course it didn't. It was a snake. Probably it had been taken from a zoo or a jungle and planted here because it was venomous. Someone had hoped that the snake would kill Tom in his sleep. That person hadn't counted on it biting Hermione, on Tom finding her before she died. On Tom being a Parselmouth.

That person had been rather sloppy, all things considered. Tom sniffed lightly and sighed, pointing his wand at the snake and drawling,

"Vipera Evanesca."

The snake dissolved quickly into thin air, Vanishing into nonbeing and leaving no trace of its existence. The only sign that anything had happened in the bathroom was that the shower was still running (Tom quickly turned it off). There was also a puddle of water on the floor where Hermione had stumbled naked after being bitted, and Tom cleaned that up, as well. He sighed shakily and made his way back up to the Hospital Wing, pushing open the doors to the Infirmary without knocking. He was trembling fiercely by the time he arrived, and the shaking did not improve when he saw Hermione lying unconscious in a bed.

"Is she all right?" he called to the cluster of Medi-Witches and Healers around the bed. Dippet was there, too, speaking in a low voice to the Healer. As Tom approached, a wizard in dark blue robes turned round, sighing and reaching out a hand.

"You must be Mr Riddle," the Healer said. Tom stopped and peered round the Healer, seeing that Hermione was sheathed in a plain white nightgown. She was tucked peacefully into the bed and looked to be sleeping, but a pit in Tom's stomach prompted him to ask again, in a tight voice,

"Is she all right?"

The Healer lowered his hand and cleared his throat. "My name is Healer Percival. I've been brought from St Mungo's. We are going to transfer Miss Villeneuve to hospital at once. If you hadn't brought her immediately, I'm afraid we would have lost her. As it is, Mr Riddle, we can only hope that the damage is completely reversed. She's been dosed with Dreamless Sleep to help stave off convulsions as the Anti-Venom works through her... she will need several weeks in hospital at minimum."

"I shall come with her," Tom said firmly.

"I think it best that -" The Healer began, but Tom gave him a withering scowl and snarled,

"I am her husband. Perhaps you did not know."

The Healer nodded nervously and swallowed heavily. "Of course, My Lord," he said finally, sending a strange shock down Tom's spine. The Medi-Witches behind Tom seemed busy at preparing Hermione for transport; they were wrapping her in blankets and putting a woolen hat upon her head.

"Why can you not treat her here?" Tom demanded. "It seems dangerous to move her."

"The best medicines and Healers are at St Mungos, Mr Riddle," Headmaster Dippet began, but Tom interrupted firmly,

"Then bring them here."

He looked from Dippet to the Healer and back again, glaring at the men with an expression that left no room for debate. Armando Dippet sighed heavily and said,

"Healer Percival, might you be able to remain here for a while with a few Medi-Witches? Hogwarts will gladly house you so that you may properly treat Madam Villeneuve..."

"Of course," Healer Percival said quickly. "That could be arranged."

"Good," Tom said, nodding.

"I shall write to the Ministry at once, requesting investigators," Dippet said. "We must find out how it is that a deadly snake found its way into the Head Boy's room -"

"No need, Headmaster." Tom shook his head insistently. Dippet opened his mouth to protest, but Tom said through clenched teeth, "If I can eliminate the risk of Gellert Grindelwald, surely I can find out who was fool enough to plant a snake in my bathroom... and make certain it never happens again."

Dippet shifted on his feet, looking rather uneasy as he cleared his throat. "Do be careful, Mr Riddle," he said. "There are rules, you know... procedures, for this sort of thing."

"Naturally, sir." Tom nodded absently. "I shall handle it all with an abundance of caution and justice. You have my word. Now. If you don't mind, I should like to go and hold my wife's hand for a while. I think it might soothe everyone's nerves."

"Of course." Dippet nodded and stepped aside. Tom brushed between him and the bewildered-looked Healer, his heart thrumming with rage as he walked up to the hospital bed. He pulled up a chair beside Hermione and sat down, taking her hand in his and looking at her peaceful face. He sighed and pinched his lips, knowing that he could not confirm his suspicions about who had planted the snake.

He could, of course. Technically. He could kidnap Maggie Prewett and interrogate her with Legilimency. But to do so would be foolish; it would make him seem downright psychotic, even if it turned out that she had indeed tried to kill him. He would be better off biding his time. He would get his vengeance on the red-haired idiot one day. And when he did, he'd make it very obvious that he knew what she'd done.

* * *

March 1955

"She is here, My Lord. In the sitting-room."

Lord Voldemort signed his name with a flourish to the document he'd been reading and nodded to Abraxas Malfoy in the threshold. He set down his quill and picked up the Elder Wand, rising from his desk and striding quickly from his office. He breezed past Abraxas and headed down the dark corridor toward the sitting-room, outside which he saw Hermione leaning against the wall. She looked rather distraught, and he pulled up in front of her and put his hand upon her cheek.

Her eyes were rimmed red as though she'd been crying, and her hair was rather disheveled around her thin face. She stared at Voldemort for a long moment, and then she leaned forward and kissed him. It wasn't the sort of kiss he was accustomed to receiving from her. It was fierce, almost violent. It nearly hurt, the way she bit at his lip and gripped his hair. Voldemort grunted into Hermione's mouth and pulled away, furrowing his eyebrows at her.

"Are you alright?" he whispered gently, though of course he knew she was not.

"She wanted to take Georgie from you," Hermione said firmly.

"I know." Voldemort nodded. "And she nearly did take you from me. Believe me, Hermione. I have no reason to be merciful."

A tear wormed its way from one of Hermione's shining chestnut eyes, and she moved to swipe it away angrily. Voldemort caught her wrist and twisted it carefully, kissing the inside of her arm so she shivered. He used his thumb to brush away her tear, and he pulled her wrist back down to her side. Hermione gulped and shook her head.

"I am not a hateful creature," she insisted, "but I want her dead. It is the only way I know my child will be safe. I do not trust her. I want her dead. Please, Tom…"

"Wait out here," Tom said quietly, leaning forward and gently pushing Hermione against the wall. He ghosted a kiss against her lips and whispered, "I won't be long, darling."

Then he pushed the door to the sitting-room open and moved gracefully inside, shutting the door behind him. The room was silent except for the ticking of the clock on the mantle and the soft crackling of the fire in the fireplace. The space was still and empty, and no one was in the room except for Voldemort and one other person - Maggie Prewett, who lay in the middle of the ground, bound by magical ropes.

"Hello, Miss Prewett," Voldemort said smoothly, moving to hover above her. Maggie squirmed and squealed, her speaking constrained by a spell. Voldemort sniffed and paced around her, and he said smoothly, "I wonder if you might tell me what it is you had planned for my daughter Georgiana. Legilimens."

Her mind cracked open far more easily than Voldemort would have thought likely, given that the girl was a skilled Auror. He'd have thought her capable of at least rudimentary Occlumency, but her thoughts caved to him at once. He could see Maggie meeting with Albus Dumbledore, discussing Voldemort and Hermione and Georgiana.

'I find that he is particularly devoid of human emotion,' Dumbledore was saying, 'except when it comes to his wife, and particularly to his daughter. If we wish to halt his ascent, I believe it might be prudent to exploit that emotional tie. It seems cruel, but it may be the only way...'

Another memory flashed by, a meeting between Maggie and Dumbledore in the Hog's Head Inn in Hogsmeade.

'If we get Georgiana in Azkaban,' Maggie said to Dumbledore, 'They'll give us anything we want. Voldemort would put himself in a cell to free her. You'll see.'

Voldemort pulled out of Maggie Prewett's mind and flashed a crooked grin down at her. Maggie's green eyes went wide and she shook her head, moaning miserably.

"Ah. So the Dark Lady was right, then. She often is." Voldemort pointed his wand at Maggie and said in a lazy voice, "She's felt an enormous lack of trust toward you for a great many years, you know. Ever since you tried to kill me with that snake at Hogwarts. That was rather foolish of you, I'm afraid. Rather obvious. But, then, you hadn't been trained as an Auror yet. You can scarcely be blamed for such sloppy and elementary tactics. And how were you to know that the snake would attack Hermione instead of me? Or that I would be able to communicate with it using Parseltongue?"

Maggie's eyes went wider than ever then, and Voldemort chuckled under his breath. He jabbed his wand at the space beside Maggie and said calmly,

"Serpensortia."

The Elder Wand backfired a bit from the force of the spell as a large black-and-brown viper burst into the air. It landed with a small thump upon the ground and began hissing at once, slithering along the ground and triggering a happy little smile upon Voldemort's face.

"Ssa naeslisss… sporre naeslis."

The snake struck at once, biting Maggie's cheek. Then it bit her shoulder, and her abdomen, and her hip. She screamed as loudly as she could without being able to open her mouth, and she wiggled until the venom began to sink into her veins. Knowing that the viper's bite would immobilise her and take over her nervous system in just moments, Voldemort said quickly to Maggie Prewett,

"There are consequences for the choices we make, Miss Prewett. You and Dumbledore were very right to think that I am… shall we say, rather attached to my wife and daughter. You were both very right to think that I would do anything, give anything, in their names. That includes killing. And so, in your foolhardy attempts to foil me, you and Dumbledore will learn just how attached the great Lord Voldemort can be. It is you, Maggie Prewett, and not Georgiana, who will suffer the consequences of my ascent. You and Albus Dumbledore will pay with your lives. Go now to whatever hell it is that receives your kind."

Maggie Prewett stopped squirming then, and her wide eyes glazed over and stared blankly at the ceiling. Her muffled squeals went silent. The snake that Voldemort had Summoned slithered back toward him. He petted its head and smirked down at it, thinking he might like to keep it. He spared one last glance to Maggie Prewett's body and to the snake and sighed, turning and briskly walking out of the sitting-room.

He opened the closed the door quickly, finding that Hermione had been pacing in the corridor the entire time he'd been inside.

"Well?" she asked tightly. He just nodded once, curtly. Hermione's face darkened and her lips flattened into a determined line. She reached for Voldemort's hand and swallowed heavily as she said,

"Thank you, Tom."

* * *

May 1945

Hermione was floating on a giant white daisy, high above a churning blue ocean. She was unafraid of the height, knowing that if she fell she would fall slowly and land almost weightlessly. She giggled madly as she clung to an enormous daisy petal and gazed down at the water, letting the wind whip her hair about her chapped cheeks.

Then, very abruptly, she was in the ocean itself, breathing the water as if she were a fish. She was holding fast to a bit of seaweed and was watching a school of brightly-coloured creatures swim by. She greeted them, laughing at the bubbles that came from between her lips.

Then she was breathing air, gasping for life, and she wasn't laughing anymore. There was a bright light, painfully bright, unpleasant and burning and insistent.

Wake up, Hermione, the light screamed at her. Open your eyes and come back to the world.

NO! her mind replied. I want my Daisy! I want to see the fish again!

But the light was very persistent, and Hermione's eyelids thrummed painfully as they forced their way open. They fluttered and she moaned in agony.

"Quickly, quickly!" she heard a woman's voice saying. "Go fetch Healer Percival and Mr Riddle at once! She's waking up!"

No, I'm not! Hermione wanted to shout, though her lips were sealed shut and the only sound she made was a rather pitiful groan. Her eyes continued a slow movement toward opening, and the light kept worming its way in. The burn got worse, and there were tears then.

The ceiling was very, very blurry. Hermione did not recall that the ceiling of any room had ever been so very blurry in all her life. She felt her body moving, though she was not moving it. Someone else was moving it for her, which seemed odd as she had no particular urge to go anywhere.

"That's it… open your eyes," a woman's voice said gently. Hermione felt herself bending at the waist, quite painfully, and she huffed in protest. The woman cooed, "I'm going to sit you up, love. Keep opening your eyes, now. We're going to bring your husband in to see you. That's it… good girl. Open your eyes…"

Then Hermione was blinking. Open, shut. Open, shut. Open, shut. One purposeful movement after another, until her eyes were able to flutter on their own and the blurriness got a bit better. She took in the space around her and realised it was the Hogwarts hospital wing.

Why am I here? Hermione wondered, and not atop my Daisy over the ocean?

Someone new came into Hermione's field of vision - a middle-aged man in vibrant blue robes. He stroked at his greying beard and asked firmly, "Do you know your name?"

Hermione thought that was a rather ridiculous question. But then she realised she would have a great deal of difficulty articulating her name. She decided to try, and she cleared her throat carefully. "Her-Hermione," she said, furrowing her brows when she heard the awful squeaking that came from her mouth. She tried again, but her voice was still quite squeaky. "My name is Hermione."

"Very good," the man in the blue robes said, as if the atrocious childishness of her voice were of no concern. He turned to the woman beside her, who looked like a Medi-Witch of some kind, and he said, "Bring Miss Villeneuve a Freshening Potion and perform some cleansing spells so that she's put to rights before we begin our exams, please."

Hermione frowned, feeling rather offended. But then she wondered how long she'd been sleeping, and she thought she must be rather rank and dirty. She opened her lips gratefully when the Medi-Witch came back and poured a minty solution into her mouth, and she felt much better after the potion took effect. Her teeth felt slick and clean in her freshened mouth, though her tongue was still awkward and heavy from disuse. The Medi-Witch cast cleansing spells upon Hermione's hair and body while she sat perfectly still upon the bed, and then the Healer came back and started asking more questions. Hermione felt a sinking feeling when confusion began setting in.

"What is your date of birth?" the Healer asked matter-of-factly, and Hermione hesitated. She was about to say, '19 September, 1979,' but then she realised quickly that she would seem insane to say such a thing. She tried to remember the date she'd given when she'd come back in time. Just remembering that she had come back in time took a long moment of clearing mental fog. At long last, Hermione decided to omit the year altogether and whispered,

"I was born on the nineteenth of September."

"Very good," the Healer said, and Hermione felt a measure of relief. But then the Healer asked,

"Do you know how it is you came to be in the hospital wing, Madam Villeneuve?"

Hermione thought hard, but eventually she shook her head, sending a wave of pain down her neck and spine. She winced and hissed, and the Healer said,

"Try not to move too much, please. You are here, Madam, because you were attacked by a venomous snake in your husband's dormitory bathroom. Do you recall that?"

Hermione shut her eyes and tried to think. A snake? A venomous snake? That sounded bizarre. Then there was a word that seemed even more strange.

Husband?

Hermione felt a crash of nausea come over her as she tried to make sense of everything. Finally, one by one, memories starting racking up atop one another like a deck of cards. She could see Tom's face then; she could hear his voice telling her he loved her. All the memories of him came crashing back like a wave, and Hermione felt like crying. She could vaguely recall being bitten over and over by a snake in his shower, and then she did cry a bit.

"Where is he?" she asked suddenly, still hating the high pitch of her voice. "Where is Tom?"

"We've sent for him," said the Healer carefully. "He's been here every single day for over two months, Madam Villeneuve, it's -"

"Hermione!"

She could hear his voice shouting from outside the hospital wing, and Hermione unsuccessfully tried to sit forward to see around the curtain framing her bed. She winced again and sat back, watching the Healer rise and smile knowingly as Tom yelled again,

"Hermione!"

His sprinting footsteps grew closer and closer, and then suddenly the curtain was thrown back and he was standing there, beside her, panting and red-cheeked as though he'd just run a marathon. He flicked his eyes from the Healer to the Medi-Witch and said briskly,

"If you're finished with your exam for now, Healer Percival, I'd like a minute."

"Of course, My Lord," the Healer murmured, backing out of the space and beckoning the Medi-Witch to come with him. "Please let me know if I'm needed; I shall need to check her again within the hour."

Tom nodded dismissively, turning his eyes back to Hermione. She smiled weakly at him once the Healer was gone and squeaked, "This is the second time in my life that I've spent a very long time hospitalised because of a snake. The first time was because of your bloody basilisk, you know."

"What?" Tom narrowed his eyes and shook his head. Hermione gave a derisive snort and shrugged.

"It doesn't matter now. It isn't going to happen again, I'm sure."

"What are you talking about?" Tom sank into the chair beside Hermione's bed and took her hand. He was still catching his breath, and he pushed his hair out of his eyes. Hermione thought he looked a bit thin, as though he had lost some weight while she'd been in hospital. She tried to touch his face and managed, with some difficulty, to cup his jaw with her shaking hand. He put his hand over hers on his face and shut his eyes, swallowing heavily.

"Have you been eating while I've been asleep?" she asked him pointedly. Tom did not answer. Hermione flattened her lips and cleared her throat, saying a bit more insistently, "You look very thin, Tom. They tell me you've been here every day. Have you been taking care of yourself?"

He opened his eyes and dragged the inside of her wrist to his mouth, kissing it lightly and sending a shiver down Hermione's spine. "I spent many of my mealtimes here," he admitted. "I confess I have not had much appetite for food when I have known you to be alone in a hospital bed. I went to lessons and I carried out some important business. Aside from that, I've been here for over two months. I happened to be in Potions when you woke up, but…" He shook his head and flicked his eyes to the little table beside Hermione's bed. She followed his eyes there and saw a small jar with a bundle of very new-looking lilacs. Tom sighed and swallowed heavily, licking his lips as he whispered,

"I replaced them every day. I wanted them to be fresh when you woke up."

Hermione's eyes burned then. She squeezed Tom's hand and tried to thank him, but the lump in her throat kept her from speaking. Tom kissed the inside of her wrist again and said gently,

"The snake that nearly killed you… it was meant for me. People will always hate me, Hermione. They will try to kill me, and I know that. I don't mind that. But I've been thinking on it, and I've realised that someone might deliberately try to kill you, to hurt me. To manipulate me, to get me to give in. And I do mind that, very much indeed."

He put Hermione's wrist down then, laying it upon the bed. He stared at her hand for a long moment, and Hermione felt a terrible pit in her stomach. "You just have to be stronger than them, Tom," she insisted, but Tom shook his head.

"If you are near me, they will take you. They will kill you to wound me, and it will work. It will destroy me, from the inside out. I can not lose you, Hermione."

"You won't, Tom," Hermione said forcefully, though of course she knew it was an impossible thing to promise. Tom raised his dark eyes to her and sighed pointedly, shaking his head.

"I very nearly did lose you," he reminded her. "I did not eat. I did not sleep. I sat in this chair and I loathed myself for landing you in this bed. I love you so completely that that your fate is tied to mine, you understand?"

"You are my husband, Tom," Hermione said, feeling a rush of terror come over her as she realised he meant to end their marriage. She felt tears trickling down her cheeks as her voice crackled, "You bound yourself to me forever, and I to you."

"Silly girl," Tom hissed, taking her face in his hands firmly. He brushed her tears away with his thumbs and shook his head. He leaned in to kiss Hermione's lips and she was suddenly grateful for the Freshening Potion. Tom whispered against her mouth, "Do you think I mean to leave you?"

"Yes," Hermione answered, her voice trembling with confusion. Tom laughed, low in his throat, and kissed her again. Hermione frowned, feeling more confused than ever. If he didn't mean to leave her, then what did he mean?

"I will destroy every last of them," Tom informed her, his fingers moving to arrange her messy hair. His dark eyes glanced lovingly around her face and settled on her own gaze, and the corner of his mouth curled up dangerously. He licked his bottom lip, sending a shiver down Hermione's spine, and he whispered, "I will eliminate every enemy until you are safe, until I can sleep beside you every night until the end of time, knowing that no danger at all befalls you. Because, Hermione, I have many ambitions in this world… but none is more important than spending my life beside you. Promise me you will grow old with me."

"Tom, I -" Hermione wanted to tell him that she had no idea what the future would hold, that time was the most confusing concept she'd ever encountered. But he put both his hands upon her cheeks and stared deeply into her eyes, his gaze glittering like black diamonds. She melted then, at the sight of his passion for her, and she felt faint when he said forcefully,

"Promise me that I will be an old man, and you will be an old woman, and that you will still love me. No matter what happens."

It was a ridiculous promise to make, and there were so many things that could go wrong between now and then. It was, frankly, an impossible thing to try to ensure. But Hermione put her hands over Tom's on her cheeks and nodded firmly.

"I promise," she whispered, and she sighed as he kissed her.

* * *

May 1945

The Muggle conflict in Europe ended in early May, and with that news came a great deal of relief among the student body of Hogwarts. Many had family on the Continent, whilst others had simply felt uneasy about so much violence going on, fearing their wizarding families might get caught in the crossfire.

For several weeks in May, there was a relative calm and happiness at the school. Grindelwald was gone, the weather was fine, the Muggle war was over. Then, toward the end of the month, students became grumpy again as it became time to frantically revise for final exams. For the elder students, sitting O.W.L.s. and N.E.W.T.s became the primary priority.

Tom felt no real urgency in sitting his N.E.W.T.s. He knew he would pass all the exams he attempted, and he felt no obligation to revise for them. But he spent many nights in May revising with Hermione, for she had missed many weeks of lessons while in hospital, and she was terrified. She had no reason to be nervous, of course. She was brilliant and could pass her exams in her sleep. Nonetheless, Tom practised spells with her and quizzed her on facts and even let her turn him into a water goblet (in his bedroom, at midnight).

Tom hadn't realised how lonely he'd been without Hermione until he had her back. His 'friends' only cared what he said because he was charismatic. They were sycophants, every last one of them. They never questioned him, never challenged him to a debate. They laughed too enthusiastically at his sarcasm and they followed him around like puppy dogs. They adored him, but only because they wanted to be with him once he was powerful. They wanted positions in his New World. They thought they were his friends, his allies, his lieutenants. But to Tom, they were obnoxious sheep bleating as they followed him relentlessly. Of course, he couldn't turn them away. He did need the sycophants if he wanted to ascend to power. That did not mean he liked them.

And it certainly did not mean he preferred them to Hermione. While she healed, he dreamed of her, of the way she smiled at him and the way she hummed in the shower. He thought of her during lessons, of touching her and laughing with her. He thought of how she'd stood beside him that night in the Great Hall when they'd received the Order of Merlin, looking resplendent in a regal emerald gown. He remembered their private wedding and the night he'd told her he loved her.

Every damned day, all the while, he'd had to see Maggie Prewett's stupid ginger face, looking smug and self-satisfied in lessons and in corridors. He'd thought about killing her, more than once. He'd nearly done it one time, when Maggie had been leaving the library and Tom had been patrolling alone. But he knew it would have been stupid, that it would have ruined everything.

He'd killed Ladon Scamander for far less, of course. He'd killed a lot of people for a lot less. But things were different now. If he were discovered killing a pureblood witch for a hunch, things could come tumbling down awfully quickly. So Tom watched Maggie Prewett with hatred in his cold eyes, hoping that someday he could watch the life leave hers.

One morning at the end of May, Tom was cleaning his teeth in his bathroom when he heard Hermione say from out in the bedroom,

"I am going to scream from panic. I swear it."

He rolled his eyes and spit out his toothpaste, rinsing his mouth patiently before calling to her, "You know full well that Albus Dumbledore can not present a challenge too great for you. You will do just fine."

She didn't answer, and Tom glanced curiously out to see that she was frantically turning books into birds.

"Avis ad piscis!" she cried then, and one of the bird-books turned quickly into a fish, which flopped helplessly on the floor. Quickly realising her rather cruel mistake, Hermione gasped and rushed to Conjure a fishbowl. "Aguamenti!" she cried, filling the bowl. Then she levitated the gasping goldfish into the bowl and placed it on the little table beside the armchair. She stared at the fish and touched the bowl gently, cooing apologetically, "I'm so sorry, little fish!"

"Can you stop practising now?" Tom drawled, drying his hair with a towel and smearing shaving lotion onto his face. Hermione looked up and swallowed heavily as Tom began running his razor over his cheek. He could shave with magic, of course, but he found it rather relaxing to make it part of his morning routine to do it by hand. Hermione seemed to like watching him do it, too, for some reason. She set her wand down and stalked toward him, still looking quite nervous. She leaned upon the bathroom doorjamb, still clad in her silk pyjamas.

"I'd much rather stay here and make love to you all day than go and take a Transfiguration exam," she admitted, and Tom smirked as he turned to the mirror and dragged the razor over his skin a few times.

"That sounds nice," he nodded. "Let's do that."

Hermione snorted and stood up straight from the doorjamb. She grinned and shook her head. "Right. No one would wonder where the married seventh-years were."

Tom shrugged. "Let them wonder," he said simply, rinsing his razor in the basin and finishing off the last bit of shaving cream. He patted his face with a hot wash cloth and smiled crookedly at Hermione. "Let them be jealous of me."

She scoffed and turned over her shoulder, laughing as she began to walk away from the doorjamb. "We've got to hurry and get dressed," she said. "We're going to be late for breakfast."

Tom reached for her wrist, pulling her back and crushing her mouth with a kiss. She tasted like toothpaste, like vanilla and caramel, and he instantly felt himself going hard as he laced his fingers with hers. She huffed in weak protest against his mouth, and she pulled away to say something, but Tom quickly whispered,

"I don't want breakfast. I'm not hungry. I want you instead."

"Tom…" Hermione shook her head and sighed. "I need to read up on human feature Transfiguration; I'm certain I'll be tested on it…"

"You," Tom began, pushing Hermione gently toward the bed, "are perfectly skilled in human feature Transfiguration. You need to relax, or you won't do very well. Don't you know that magic functions best when the practitioner is relaxed?"

It was a lie; he was making that up entirely and she knew it. She giggled as he urged her onto her back on the bed, and he felt a genuinely happy expression wash over him as he pulled the thin straps of her mint-green silk camisole down. He bared her torso and felt another swell of desire beneath the towel round his waist. One of his hands reached instinctively to cup a small breast and he moaned quietly, his eyes wrenching shut as he realised just how thoroughly he was attracted to her.

She wasn't perfect, but, then, neither was he. She had frizzy hair and a small chest and a gangly form and lots of freckles. Perhaps other people might have thought those to be flaws. Tom didn't. He thought every inch of Hermione was perfect and beautiful and very desirable, and he grew harder with every second that he touched her.

He yanked down her pyjama shorts and tossed his towel aside and pulled her to the edge of the bed, massaging her chest and her clit for a long while as he stared at her eyes.

"I love you," she whispered finally, and Tom flinched to hear her say it. He nodded, panting with want. He didn't have a free hand to attend to his throbbing manhood, but Hermione reached up to stroke him and he jerked forward into her hand. He nodded again, gratefully, and said in a strained voice,

"I almost lost you."

"You didn't, though," she said reassuringly, driving her head back against the mattress.

"I got lucky," Tom muttered, feeling himself grow in her hand. It felt too good, the way her fingers coursed over his tip and fluttered down his length. He needed to be inside of her - now. He impulsively used his knee to part her thighs and pushed himself into her sopping wet entrance, pumping steadily as he huffed, "You can't leave me. I will not - I can't make it without you."

"Don't be a fool," Hermione laughed, and Tom flushed with embarrassment and paused his thrusting. She reached up to touch his face and clarified, "You can make it all on your own. I've seen it happen."

"No, you didn't," Tom asserted tightly. "You saw me as a grey-faced, red-eyed shadow. I failed. Something had happened. I'd lost you. I told you so, didn't I? In that timeline, I'd lost you, somehow, and look what happened. I need you. You can not… please."

He had no idea what he was saying, why he sounded like an emotional mess even to his own ears. But Tom cycled his hips into Hermione and leaned his cheek against her hand. He shut his eyes and felt her hand reach for her wand, knowing she meant to cast a contraceptive spell. He clutched at her wrist and shook his head firmly, eyes still shut.

"Don't do that," he whispered. "You're my wife."

"Tom, look at me," Hermione said quickly, and he did, opening his eyes just a crack. He felt Hermione's hands go to his hips and slow them, and he saw the concerned look in her eyes. "You've years to go before you ought to worry about being a father," she informed him, "and I'm more concerned about my Transfiguration N.E.W.T. than I am about being a mother. Hand me my wand, will you?"

Tom knew she was right, much as it struck at his core to admit it. He reached for his own wand and murmured a few protective spells before moving his hips again. He lowered himself to his elbows and started kissing Hermione's neck, so deeply that he knew there would be marks.

Good, he thought. Let them see that you're mine.

He felt her womanhood clench slowly and steadily around him after a time, heard her quietly moan his name once or twice. His own climax was easy, too, and after a while he lay beside her with his leg strewn over her softly panting form. Finally, he heard her whisper,

"We've missed breakfast."

"I don't care," Tom muttered truthfully.

"We'll be late for lessons," she pointed out, and Tom repeated,

"I don't care."

It was ten minutes before either of them could be bothered to dress for the day.

* * *

June 1945

Hermione stared over her shoulder at the glittering windows of Hogwarts Castle, wondering whether she would ever see them again.

"It's sad in a way, isn't it?" Betty Cattermole asked. Hermione flashed Betty a sad smile and squeezed her friend's hand. The two girls were sharing a boat with Abraxas Malfoy and Tom. As part of the seventh-year graduation ceremony, they were taking a boat across the Black Lake to Hogsmeade Station. It was a nostalgic hearkening to the way they'd first arrived at Hogwarts as first-years. For Hermione, it was particularly touching (and odd) since her first crossing in a Hogwarts boat wouldn't happen until 1991.

"I don't suppose it does much good to dwell on the past, Miss Cattermole," Tom said lightly from across the boat, and Betty's face fell as she nodded obediently.

"No, My Lord," she said. "I suppose not."

Hermione licked her lips and tried to infuse a bit of diplomacy. Sometimes it seemed to her that Tom forgot that part of ingratiating himself to his followers was being likable. She squeezed Betty's hand again and said to Tom,

"I think what Betty meant was that Hogwarts is a place where many of us forged incredible relationships of all kinds. Our miraculous futures would not be so illuminated without the experiences we had at Hogwarts, eh?"

Betty grinned and nodded then, and Tom smirked gratefully at Hermione. "Indeed," he agreed.

"My Lord, I received an owl just this morning from my uncle Neptunus," said Abraxas Malfoy as the little boat neared the far shore of the Black Lake. Hermione could just make out in the dim lantern light the way Tom quirked up his eyebrows.

"Oh?"

"He writes to inform you that at this point all the former adherents to Grindelwald - in Britain, anyway - have expressed interest in a meeting."

Tom looked pleased. He flicked his eyes to Hermione and curled up half his mouth, sniffing lightly as he said to Abraxas, "I would like a full list of their names. Where they live, who their friends are. Why it is they were associated with Grindelwald in the first place. I shall sort through them and send a guest list to your uncle Neptunus, and we shall host a little soiree in a few weeks at Malfoy Manor."

"Wonderful, My Lord," Abraxas nodded.

Hermione felt a nervous flutter in her stomach as she looked over her shoulder once more at Hogwarts. She'd passed all her N.E.W.T.s with flying colours; she'd been granted a total of seven, all Outstandings. Even so, she felt a great deal of unease about the future. Tom seemed quite happy to leave school, to move on to the 'real world.' But Hermione had no idea what the 'real world' was. She had never lived in the 1940s at all outside of Hogwarts, much less in a world where she was the wife of a young man aspiring to rule wizarding Britain with Dark magic.

Hogwarts had always been a safe haven for Hermione. It had always meant reading and studying, writing essays and learning new spells. It had always meant friendship and adventure, breaking rules and scolding people about them. Put simply, Hogwarts had been the essence of Hermione's existence for the past seven years; everywhere and everything else had been purely auxiliary. Even after moving through time, the one constant for Hermione had been school.

Now she wouldn't even have that. The only predictable thing she would have was Tom. In order to rely on him as a 'predictable' thing, she would have to throw out all notions she held of him from her previous life. She would have to keep moving forward in the life they were building together.

There was no Ron Weasley, no Harry Potter, no Mum or Dad or television. Albus Dumbledore was an enemy, apparently. Lord Voldemort was her husband, and she was madly in love with him. A great many things that Hermione knew to have happened had not yet come to pass, and probably never would. A great many people she had known had not yet been born, and probably never would exist.

As the boat landed at the Hogsmeade docks, Hermione took Tom's hand and looked up into his dark, glittering eyes. Distantly, Hermione heard Betty Cattermole speaking excitedly with Abraxas about going to the beaches in Bournemouth together. Tom flashed Hermione his trademark crooked smile as he helped her from the boat, rolling his eyes toward Betty and Abraxas as they made their way down the dock.

"He's in for it with her," Tom joked. "She won't shut up for the next fifty years, I should think. But he's fond of her, so."

His smile widened a bit, but then disappeared when he saw that Hermione wasn't smiling back. She frowned and apologised, "I'm sorry, Tom. It's just… leaving school. It makes me think about… time. My time."

Tom stopped in his tracks and squeezed Hermione's hand almost painfully. He glanced about the dock, waiting for a cluster of students to pass. Then he put his hands upon Hermione's shoulders and gave her a very deliberate look.

"This is your time," he insisted. Hermione sighed and shut her eyes.

"It is," she agreed, "and it isn't. I was born thirty-four years from now -"

"That doesn't matter," Tom said flatly. Hermione felt queasy as she shook her head, eyes still shut.

"I miss my mother," she whispered. "I miss my best friends. They won't ever exist, probably. I've erased them from being. I'm a terrible person. I should never have come here."

She gasped in shock then, for Tom grabbed her jaw roughly. Her eyes flew open as he growled,

"Don't ever say that again!"

"You're hurting me!" Hermione whimpered through clenched teeth, pulling her face away from him and ripping at his wrist. Tom let go at once, staggering backward and staring at his hand as if frightened of it. He glanced up at her, a look of shame on his face.

"I'm sorry," he whispered, shaking his head.

Hermione panted softly as she stroked her sore jaw and thought she'd probably have a bruise there. She furrowed her brow, surprised at how roughly Tom had grabbed her when she impulsively said she should never have come back in time. He hadn't meant to hurt her, she knew, and indeed he'd seemed terribly ashamed to have done so. But she still didn't want to touch him just now. She looked around the dock and realised she and Tom were alone.

"You go on ahead to the train," she said quietly, rubbing her jaw. Tom shifted on his feet and hesitated, pursing his lips.

"I'm not about to leave you here in dark by yourself," he stated firmly.

Hermione held up her wand and gave him a sarcastic smile. "I've just received seven Outstanding N.E.W.T.s," she reminded him. "I reckon I can handle anything that comes out of the darkness. You go on. I'll be there in just a moment."

"Very well." Tom nodded slowly and turned to go, sticking his hands into his pockets. As he walked slowly away, Hermione heard the first whistle of the Hogwarts Express. She knew she couldn't dawdle long behind Tom, and she contemplated just going with him. Suddenly, he turned around, a few metres away from her. He was still walking backward slowly, hands stuffed into his pockets. He looked thoughtful as he dragged his tongue over his bottom lip. His face was shadowed by the lanterns alongside the walkway, but Hermione could see the seriousness in the sharp lines of his face as he said,

"You know, Hermione… I don't much care what year you were born. And I care even less who gets 'erased' by you coming to be with me. Call me selfish. I don't care about that, either. I'm in love with you. That's all matters to me. There is no 'your' time or 'my' time. There is only our time. I confess I do not care to think on the logic of it all - it seems terribly complicated and I fear I may somehow erase you if I overthink it. All that matters me, Hermione, is that one day you appeared, smelling of spring rain and lilacs, and then time began."

He stopped walking backward then and stood still for a moment. His face was mostly shrouded in shadow as he lowered his voice so that Hermione could barely hear him.

"I am going to be the greatest wizard who ever lived," Tom declared confidently, his voice a smooth hiss. "I am going to be powerful, and no one will be safe from me, except for you. Everyone will answer to me, except for you. Everyone will call me 'Lord,' except for you. You,

Hermione… I married you for a reason. I marked you as my equal because I want you - need you - beside me. Until my last breath, you understand? So there is no 'your' time. No 'my' time. There is only 'our' time. Our era starts here, today. This moment, on this dock. The reign of the Dark Lord begins this very night. And you are my Lady."

Tom strode quickly toward Hermione and brushed his fingers against her jaw as if to apologise for being too rough with her earlier. Hermione felt her heart thumping in her chest with unsolicited excitement, felt her pulse flushing rapidly through her veins and her ears ringing loudly. She stared wide-eyed up at Tom and felt herself nod against her will. Tom smirked down at her and brushed his lips against hers.

"Please don't ever say again that you should not have come to me," he whispered, lowering his hand and lacing his fingers through hers, "for I should be utterly lost without you. Now… come with me to the train, will you? We've much to discuss on the way to London."


	9. Chapter 9

_June 1945_

Malfoy Manor seemed unaffected by the relative heat of summer. Though outside the world had become warm and sticky, the interior of the manor was dank and cold. Tom had once more taken up residence in the most luxurious apartments of the home. He and Hermione were again housed in the ostentatious golden bedroom where they'd been put over the Christmas holidays. Tom didn't mind the grandeur so much now. It seemed fitting, in a way.

He had an office now, too - a cavernous, wood-panelled space that was dark and required a great number of sconces just to allow Tom to see his work. But Tom liked it, for it felt positively regal, and the shadowy space lent a measure of solemnity to the work he was beginning to do.

One day toward the middle of June, rain thudded outside the windows of Malfoy Manor, falling straight from the heavens to the ground as if on a mission to soak the earth. Tom sat at his substantial mahogany desk, glancing out the windows from time to time as he sorted through bits of parchment. Each parchment contained the name and biographical information of a defector from Gellert Grindelwald's ranks. The names had been given to Tom through Neptunus Malfoy, but it had been Hermione who had done in-depth, secretive research and had written a blurb of advice on each person. Now Tom sorted through them, one by one, deciding who was worthy of attending the dinner party he was planning for mid-July.

A few dozen of the names had wound up in a pile to be invited, and about ten names had been discarded. Those individuals, Tom thought, would be either useless or distinctly unhelpful. Now he was on the very last name, and he read through the parchment with great interest. Hermione's script on the parchment was neat and orderly, as it always was.

 _LAZARUS GREENGRASS, aged 28._

 _\- Member of the established Greengrass family; father and brother own The Coffin House, a necromancy-related shop in Knockturn Alley._

 _\- Family are traditionally Slytherins; Lazarus, however, attended Durmstrang from 1929-1936 and excelled in necromancy._

 _\- It is rumoured that he was a favourite of Grindelwald due to his skill in creating Inferi._

 _* I advise you to keep Lazarus Greengrass close, with an abundance of caution. It would be folly to make an enemy of him, but be extremely wary. He seems particularly Dark of nature. Keep him reigned in._

Tom felt his eyebrows fly up as he looked at the black-and-white photograph of Lazarus Greengrass that had been clipped to the parchment. The young man's lip was curled up as though he smelled something foul, and his heavy-lidded eyes seemed bored. Tom chewed on his bottom lip and decided Hermione was right. This Lazarus Greengrass could be very useful, very dangerous, or both. He put the parchment and the photograph in the ' _yes_ ' pile. Then he Vanished the little stack of rejections and rose from his desk, taking the remaining papers with him. He stalked down the corridor to the little sitting-room where he could hear Abraxas Malfoy speaking quietly with his father, Nereus.

The elder Malfoy was tall, like his son, though more wiry. His long blonde hair was tied back into a short ponytail at the nape of his neck. It was only just beginning to be sliced through with silver, and the man's face bore the very first hints of the creases of age. Nereus Malfoy dressed as though the year were 1775; he wore knee-length breeches and stockings and a silk waistcoat beneath elaborate velvet robes. He spoke with an odd, stilted formality indicative of far too many generations of wealth. If he did anything to earn money, Tom was unaware of it. He didn't much care, for Nereus Malfoy was one of Tom's strongest supporters for the time being.

As Tom swept into the sitting-room, he realised he was a bit of a pretender, an actor playing at elegance. He'd grown up in an orphanage, after all. The Malfoys were bona fide aristocrats. But he must have done a decent job pretending, for Abraxas and Nereus rose quickly to their feet and bowed their heads reverently.

"My Lord," said Nereus softly, "I do hope your office accommodations are to your satisfaction."

"They are, sir. I thank you very kindly. The Malfoy family have been exceedingly generous. Your kindness and loyalty will not be forgotten." Tom quirked up a charming smile as Nereus Malfoy looked pleased and bowed. Then Tom turned to Abraxas and held out the little bundle of parchments. "Abraxas, send these to your uncle Neptunus, will you? I want these individuals invited to a soiree, here at the Manor, on the evening of the 15th of July."

"The fifteenth," Abraxas repeated, nodding as he obediently took the papers from Tom's hand. "I shall send the owl straight away, My Lord."

Tom flicked his eyes out the window at the thrashing rain and widened his smile. "Wait for the rain to stop," he commanded with a wink. "Don't make the poor bird fly in this."

Abraxas chuckled and nodded. "Very good, My Lord."

Tom wondered absently as he left the room whether Abraxas still felt guilty about Valentine's Day. Tom thought perhaps it had been a blessing in disguise that Abraxas had disrespected him so blatantly that day. It rather gave Tom ammunition to hold over Abraxas' head in perpetuity. Abraxas had forgotten his place; he'd forgotten that just because they were at school didn't mean they were both 'just students.' It hadn't been a simple breakfast spat among fellow schoolboys, and Abraxas had realised his mistake very quickly. But what had happened had happened, and now Abraxas would forever walk on eggshells around Tom. He would always tack an extra 'My Lord' onto the end of a question or affirmation, just in case. He would always bow his head one extra time. He would always lower his eyes a bit further, back out of the room a bit more deliberately.

And Tom liked it that way.

He straightened his new black robes, recently arrived from Twillfit and Tattings, and glanced down at himself. He was glad not to be wearing the silly Hogwarts uniform anymore. He'd sent Hermione to Diagon Alley to get fitted for a new wardrobe, as well, and she was due back any moment now.

Just as Tom thought of that, he heard the soft click of her low heels as she rounded the corner of the corridor ahead. He paused where he stood and smirked, waiting patiently as he heard her huff. She turned the corner and stared at the ground, clutching her wand and raking her fingers through her sopping wet hair as she murmured,

"Bloody monsoon outside..."

"Did you have a nice visit to London?" Tom inquired smoothly, and she squeaked and jumped as she noticed he was there. He chuckled and she scowled at him before straightening and squaring her jaw.

"Whatever you do, don't go outside," she said at last. "It's a -"

"Bloody monsoon. Yes, I heard you." Tom nodded and gestured for her to follow him into his office. She did, reluctantly. He lit a fire in the enormous hearth with a flick of his wand and held out his hand to the squat chair opposite his desk. She sank into the chair and gratefully accepted the teacup he handed her. With a few spells and a few scoops of tea leaves, he had hot liquid in her hands. But when he sat down, he saw that her hair was drying in clumpy tendrils around her face. Impulsively, Tom jabbed his wand toward Hermione and muttered a drying spell. The effect wasn't exactly what he'd had in mind; her hair suddenly exploded into a huge frizzy pouf.

"Agh! Tom!" Hermione shrieked and clutched at her wand, hurrying to smooth it as Tom stifled a laugh.

"I'm sorry!" he said sincerely, genuinely trying not to mock her. He held his hands up in surrender as she narrowed her eyes at him and fixed her hair. He shrugged and repeated contritely, "I'm sorry!"

She sighed and poured them each a cup of the finished tea, and Tom started drinking his without another word. After a great while of quiet, he said,

"Thank you for your research on the Grindelwald defectors. Your work was immensely helpful."

"Helpful to what?" Hermione stared into her teacup as she asked the question. Her voice was tight and cold, and Tom felt his eyebrows crumple in confusion as he wondered what had gotten into her.

"Helpful... to my cause," he clarified, as if she'd suddenly gone thick. But Hermione scoffed and rolled her eyes, sending a jolt of displeasure down Tom's spine. She stared up at him for a moment and asked,

"What are you doing, Tom?"

"I had thought I was drinking tea in my office," Tom said blandly, taking a sip of the scalding liquid in his cup. She pinched her lips and set her own teacup down.

"You know very well what I mean," she whispered, and Tom chewed the inside of his cheek.

"I'm afraid I do not. Explain."

Hermione swallowed heavily and sniffed, tipping her chin up rather imperiously - maddeningly, Tom thought - before declaring, "A great many people will die for your selfishness, Tom Riddle. Why should I help you kill them?"

Tom laughed then, derisively and under his breath. Hermione looked infuriated, but Tom leaned across the desk and said, "Let me explain something to you -"

"Do not dare condescend to me," Hermione interrupted firmly. Tom bit his bottom lip so hard he thought it might be bleeding, and he seethed through clenched teeth,

"Fine. Let us _discuss_ something, then, darling. There has always been a person in charge. There will always be a person in charge. To think otherwise, to think that a society can possibly exist without a ruler... it is a childish dream."

"So I am a child, then?" Hermione retorted, sitting back in her chair and crossing her arms. Tom scoffed, feeling quite cross with her. She looked delicious, in a way, when she was angry. Half of Tom wanted to yank her across the desk and pull her knickers aside and show her that he was right. But he was also furious with the way she was arguing with him. She narrowed her honey-brown eyes again and demanded, "And, anyway, Tom... how do you know _you're_ supposed to be the ruler? Perhaps someone else is supposed to be the ruler. Perhaps... Betty Cattermole! Perhaps Betty Cattermole is supposed to be the ruler!"

"Now you _are_ being a child," Tom clipped, flying up from his chair and pacing behind his desk. "Betty Cattermole ruling the wizarding world? We'd all be in mandatory red lipstick."

"This isn't a joke, Tom!" Hermione cried, slamming her teacup down upon Tom's desk so hard that tea sloshed everywhere. Tom frowned disapprovingly at the mess and Vanished the little puddle. He stared intently at Hermione.

"No," he agreed, "It isn't a joke. People have always died in the name of politics, and they always will. There will be a great many things that will turn your stomach along the way, Hermione, and for that I am deeply sorry. But you _must_ accept that I can not live a mundane life. My soul would splinter into a thousand pieces, you understand? You showed me a future - your past - where I made all the wrong choices. Help me do better this time, Hermione. There will be suffering, and there will be Darkness. There always has been, and you know that to be true. But it can better this time. I promise you that."

Hermione looked thoughtful for a long moment. Tom felt a queasy pang deep in his belly. He was fearful, all of a sudden, that he might lose her. He felt her slipping away from him, like sand through his fingers. She didn't trust him; he could see that in her fearful eyes. He wasn't sure whether or not she loved him, but in this moment, she did not trust him. Tom took a deep, shaking breath and walked around the desk, genuflecting onto one knee beside Hermione.

"Are you going to kill all the Muggle-borns?" she asked quietly, and Tom shut his eyes, feeling a painful wave wash over him as he wondered what she had seen 'him' do in the first eighteen years of her life.

"No, Hermione," he answered, shaking his head. He cupped her jaw in his hand and forced her to meet his eyes, waiting until her icy glare softened a bit before he said, "How could I possibly do such a thing when I am so very much in love with you?"

"It's what you wanted to do... what you'll want to do... The Voldemort I knew as a child gained power through hatred of people like me," Hermione shrugged, her throat bobbing and her eyes welling. Tom quelled the nauseated feeling roiling his gut, licking his bottom lip and seizing Hermione's hand as he whispered feverishly,

" _This_ Lord Voldemort will have a more sturdy platform for power," he promised her. "Please, Hermione. You know full well that I can not live my life as some Ministry peon or as a shopkeeper in Diagon Alley. You know that in my core that is not what I am capable of doing, what I am supposed to do. I am meant to have power; I can feel it in the marrow of my bones. But I can not achieve it, not properly, without you. You asked me what I was doing and I told you I was drinking tea. That's not what I'm doing."

Hermione's eyes glistened with tears and her voice shook as she squeezed Tom's hand and asked, "So what are you doing, then?"

He leaned forward and touched his lips to hers and laced his fingers through her hair, smelling lilacs on her skin. He shut his eyes and whispered against her mouth,

"I am breathing in, and breathing out... breathing in, and breathing out. Air. Just air. But do you know what, Hermione? Every last bit of this air will be mine. Every blade of grass, every tree, every stone and house and broom and book. Every man and woman and child. Every thought and dream and whisper and shout. Every spell, and every kiss. I'm making it all mine, one breath at a time."

* * *

 _September 1963_

Georgiana stared out the window of the Hogwarts Express and wondered absently about the Sorting Hat. She'd been told about the legendary four Houses of Hogwarts, and she secretly hoped she'd be a Gryffindor like her mother. She very much hoped her father would not be disappointed if it turned out she wasn't a Slytherin like he'd been… like so many of his friends had been.

She looked about the empty compartment in which she sat and sighed a bit. No one, it seemed, dared sit with the daughter of the Dark Lord. Georgie's father and mother had slowly been amassing power in the wizarding world through her entire life, though in the past two years they'd grown closer than ever to stamping out the final bits of dissent that existed. Sometimes Georgiana wondered why it was that her father needed to feel powerful, but her mother had once explained it very simply.

"Some people derive happiness from flowers. Others from a warm, sunny day. Some people like Christmas. Others enjoy soft biscuits straight out of the oven. Your father, Georgie… your father likes power."

Georgiana had crumpled her eyebrows and giggled in disbelief at that, but her mother had seemed oddly serious and resigned. Georgiana hadn't brought the matter up again. Now that she was going off to Hogwarts, she knew her parents - her mother in particular - would have even more time to devote to political pursuits. She wondered whether they would be the actual rulers of wizarding Britain the next time she saw them.

Before she could think any more on it, there was a soft knocking on the glass door of the train compartment. Georgiana frowned when she saw a very short, squat girl with a toad-like face standing on the other side of the window. She had an obnoxious pink bow in her hair, though she was already wearing her school robes. She waved a bit and gestured as if to ask permission to enter. Georgiana raised her eyebrows and beckoned, and the girl opened the sliding door and waddled into the compartment.

"Hello, My Lady! _Hem-hem!_ I'm Dolores. Family name is Umbridge, though I've got Selwyn blood on my mother's side. Very pleased to meet you." The squat little girl thrust her hand out, and Georgie stared at it for an uncomfortably long moment before finally giving it a little shake. She licked her lips and said awkwardly,

"Hello, Dolores. Won't you sit down?"

"Oh! _Hem-hem…_ thank you!" The girl sat on the bench opposite Georgiana. Her legs were so short that they swung inches from the ground. Dolores folded her hands in her lap and blinked her wide, doll-like eyes. She adjusted the lurid pink flower in her hair and croaked, "I was just speaking with Miss Black - Miss Bellatrix Black, you know - and she told me that you are just _a splendid girl_. That's what she said! So I thought I simply _had_ to meet you, to introduce myself and tell you that I'm ever-so-excited to attend school with you this term! And to let you know, of course… that is, to make myself available should you need anything at all, My Lady."

"I don't suppose I should be able to be very good friends with anyone who calls me 'My Lady,'" Georgiana grumbled in a cranky tone. She leaned ungracefully upon the windowsill and sighed rudely, "Everyone I like calls me 'Georgie.'"

"Oh!" Dolores Umbridge shifted upon her bench and played again with the pink flower in her mousy hair. "Of course, My L… erm, _Georgie._ Yes. Yes, I think I could call you that."

"Everyone I _like_ calls me 'Georgie.'" She repeated the words, tossing her dark ringlets over her shoulder and frowning at the toad-like girl across from her. Georgiana looked out the window and mumbled, " _You_ may call me 'Lady Georgiana.' And I think I should like a Pumpkin Pasty if the food trolley's about."

Dolores Umbridge's cheeks coloured and she looked humiliated for a moment. But then she collected herself, cleared her throat, and slid off of the bench. "I'll be back with that Pumpkin Pasty straight away," she said in a tight, awkward voice, backing out of the compartment.

Georgie sighed and blew a slow breath upon the train window so that it fogged up. She used her finger tip to draw the outline of the Dark Mark she had seen so many times growing up, and then she used her sleeve to erase it. She did it again and again until she grew bored and wondered where Dolores was with the damned Pumpkin Pasty. She heard the girl's rapid footsteps approaching at last and heard Bellatrix's sharp voice with her, and she sat up straighter on her bench.

Georgiana might have felt guilty for treating Dolores the way she'd done, but something about the toad-like girl had rubbed her entirely the wrong way. Whether it was her mannerisms or her voice, her blatant aspirational social climbing or her tactless behaviour… it didn't really matter. Georgie didn't like her. She'd spent her whole life surrounded by sycophants, people she despised but needed. Dolores Umbridge was no different. And if the girl was willing to get her a Pumpkin Pasty, then Georgiana would eat it.

* * *

 _July 1945_

The first weekend of July was so hot and steamy that even Malfoy Manor seemed unprepared. A terrible humidity settled over the place on the first of the month and stayed for days. Hermione finally found Abraxas one day and conspired with him to bring Betty to the Manor for the weekend, arguing that it was too hot to do anything but lounge about and socialise. Abraxas agreed and asked Tom for permission, which was granted.

Hermione stood in the window of the bedroom she shared with Tom and watched Betty walk through the front gates of the grounds. She squealed a bit when she saw that Betty was arm-in-arm with Abraxas, and she hissed softly behind her to Tom,

"Oh, do you suppose he might propose to her whilst she's here?"

Tom was reclining on the divan before the empty fireplace, eating an apple. His shirt was open to his chest from the heat and his sleeves were rolled up, and his hair was uncharacteristically frizzy. He shrugged a bit and swigged from the pewter cup of water on the table beside him.

"What do I care whether or not Abraxas Malfoy proposes marriage?" he demanded, his words garbled as he chewed his apple. "The boy's troubles with love have already been the cause of one argument between us."

Hermione rolled her eyes and stalked over to the divan. She plucked the apple from Tom's hand and took a defiant bite, laughing at Tom's angry scowl. She chewed and swallowed, handing the apple back over as she murmured, "I should think you'd want your followers happy. It would make sense."

"Hmph." Tom stared at the large hole where Hermione had taken a bite from the apple. "I should think _I_ would be happier if my wife did not steal my food."

She laughed again and tousled his hair, eliciting a fierce growl from him. He snatched at her wrist gently and gave her a rather predatory look.

"Don't force me into punishing your impish behaviour, My Lady," he warned her, and Hermione felt a delicious cold rush in her veins. But then there was a soft knock upon the bedroom door, and Betty Cattermole's voice called,

"I'm here! I'm here, I'm here, I'm here!"

Tom growled again, this time in frustration, and released Hermione's wrist. Hermione giggled softly and leaned down to kiss his forehead.

"Come," she whispered. "Mustn't keep anyone waiting."

"No, of course not," Tom sneered derisively. He rose to follow her, buttoning up his shirt to the collar but leaving his sleeves rolled to the elbows. He half-heartedly straightened his hair and reached for his wand off the coffee table. Hermione thought he looked terribly handsome so disheveled, but she shoved away her lascivious thoughts for the time being.

They all enjoyed a light dinner of salads and chilled soups, and Hermione couldn't remember the last time she'd smiled so much. Betty had indeed been hired on part-time by _Witch Weekly_ as a celebrity correspondent, so she had all manner of stories to tell.

"So did you get to meet Orsino and the Bears?" Hermione laughed, finishing off her second goblet of elf-made wine. It refilled itself and Hermione thought absently that she'd have to pace herself on the alcohol. Betty grinned and nodded.

"I _did_. I did meet them. Orsino is... well, he's not terribly intelligent," Betty admitted. "I tried to get a few good quotes out of him for the article I did on their show in Camden Town. He just grunted a lot. 'What drives you to make music?' I asked him. 'I like music,' he said. That was all. 'I like music.'"

Hermione laughed uproariously at the way Betty imitated the singer's gruff voice. The girls continued giggled for a long while after that, talking of how Hermione had recently attempted a few gardening spells she'd learned over the years.

"I got a N.E.W.T. in Herbology, you know," she began, "but I managed to kill a two-hundred-year-old rose bush. I'm so sorry, Abraxas!"

After the laughter died down, Tom dabbed his napkin at his lips and said to Abraxas, "Let us leave the ladies to their chatter, shall we, Abraxas? I'm certain they'd rather we retire to the drawing-room and look dull as we sip whisky, eh?"

Hermione rolled her eyes and put her own napkin on the table. "My Lord, I think you will find that Betty and I can drink whisky with the best of you. I beg you not to separate Betty and Abraxas during this brief visit."

She gave Tom a pointed stare, and he nodded minutely. He rose and held a hand out to Hermione. "To the whisky, then," he smirked, and Hermione let him lead her from the dining-room.

Once they'd made their way to the drawing-room, Tom and Abraxas broke into a bottle of Campbell's whisky, pouring it into tumblers and passing them out. Abraxas sat beside Betty on a green velvet divan, and Tom sat beside Hermione opposite them.

"To the Dark Lord," Abraxas said formally, raising his whisky to Tom. "May many more come under your wing."

"To the Dark Lord," Betty said merrily, drinking from her tumbler. Hermione did the same. Then, after a while, she flicked her eyes from Tom to Betty and said wickedly,

"Betty, I think you've got the perfect subject for your next celebrity column sitting in this room."

"What… who - _oh!_ " Betty's cheeks coloured scarlet, and Tom looked mildly horrified. Hermione giggled and took a sip of whisky as Abraxas scoffed,

"Really, My Lady. I do not mean to contradict you, but - _Witch Weekly?_ I should think the Dark Lord is above such trivial publications -"

"Trivial?" Betty nearly shrieked, scowling deeply at Abraxas. Tom laughed aloud then, his face looking truly amused for the first time all night.

"Well done, Abraxas; you've managed to offend both females in the room." He raised his glass in a mock toast and drank deeply, laughing again as Abraxas blanched.

"Betty, I only meant - it's just that I should think an interview with the Dark Lord might be more _appropriate_ in a news publication rather than a celebrity magazine."

"But why?" Hermione pressed. She sipped from her own drink, feeling her head spin a bit as all the wine and whisky started settling into her veins. She felt a smirk cross her lips as she pushed Abraxas and said, "I should think _Witch Weekly_ would be an ideal recruiting vehicle for housewives, young girls, and starry-eyed witches dreaming of a handsome young saviour."

She glanced over to Tom and saw him cock up a sceptical eyebrow. She knew what he was thinking. He was thinking that it would debase him, as a serious and aspirational leader, to appear in a gossip rag. He was thinking that it would make him a laughing-stock among his male followers. And he was thinking that his wife must have gone mad to suggest that her eighteen-year-old, handsome, powerful husband appear as a celebrity in a women's magazine.

But Hermione's suggestion was utterly calculated. If Tom appeared in _Witch Weekly_ , he would, of course, become thoroughly desirable to witches everywhere. But he'd always been desirable, even as a student at Hogwarts. Girls had thrown themselves upon him for years, and he'd apparently never wanted any of them until Hermione had been hurled backward in time. So she was rather unconcerned about fidelity. And when it came to the matter of respect, she thought it would sow a great amount of jealousy among Tom's male followers to see him on the pages of _Witch Weekly._ Not hatred, but rather the sort of envious admiration that had driven the Great Hall into a frenzy the night they'd received the Order of Merlin.

Hermione attempted to explain this logic, gently and tactfully, as she sipped more of her whisky. She hoped she was making sense, for she was starting to feel the liquor more deeply now. Finally she saw Tom nod slowly, and then Abraxas and Betty.

"Might I ask you a few questions, then, My Lord?" Betty asked cautiously, pulling a small notebook and a self-inking quill from the bag at her side. "I could get a short article written tomorrow and send a preliminary draft to my editor…"

"Go ahead, Miss Cattermole," Tom said smoothly, drinking from his whisky.

"Don't ask about me, Betty," Hermione hissed. "You can make some mention in passing that he's married, but you want the girls to stay interested!"

Abraxas Malfoy gave Hermione an odd look, but Tom chuckled and finished off his whisky. He poured himself a fresh glass, and Hermione saw him stumble over his feet a bit as he sat back down beside her. He put his hand upon her knee, seemingly without thinking about it or caring that he'd done so in front of Abraxas and Betty. Hermione sat up a bit straighter upon the divan and covered her hand with his, trying to make their pose appear as dignified as possible.

Betty cleared her throat and began, "My Lord, how shall I refer to you in the article? I'm assuming not as…"

She didn't say his given name - Tom Riddle - the name that everyone at school had called him for years. Hermione found that rather interesting. It was as if Betty thought it obvious that Tom was far more than that now. Tom's back went straight and a rather happy look came over his face.

"'The Dark Lord' will do just fine for now, Miss Cattermole."

"Yes, sir," she nodded. She touched her quill to her page and said nervously, "Erm… Well, the first question I asked Orsino and the Bears was, 'What drives you make music?' So, I suppose I can transfer that question more directly to you, My Lord. What drives you in your cause?"

Hermione cocked her head toward Tom, feeling a rush from the whisky as she did. She was actually rather curious about his answer, and she waited patiently as he drank from his tumbler and seemed to consider his answer. Finally, he drawled to Betty,

"I grow weary of a wizarding world that so slowly moves forward. Even Muggles manage to create new things. They thought the horse and carriage were inefficient, so they invented the automobile. They found that writing letters took too long, so they invented the telephone. We are wizardkind, and we ought to be better than that. If Muggles can grow weary of horses and invent automobiles, then why are we so complacent with Floo powder and brooms? Why do we hesitate to innovate? Why do we so rarely question? Why do we not strive to move forward, to make wizardkind the clear and undisputed champion of progress? We can be united. We can be harmonious. We can be powerful, and prosperous, and we can have everything we've ever wanted. And I mean to get us there."

He took a long draught of whisky and swallowed heavily, and then he continued, "The line between Light and Dark does not exist. It is a spectrum, you know. Everything and everyone is some murky shade of silver; we all have a lurking bit of Darkness somewhere inside us. And we all have Light somewhere, too. Light is good, in moderation. It allows us to see the people and things around us, to keep sight of the fact that we are not alone. But Darkness… Darkness helps us focus. Darkness creates a quiet stillness where we can think and dream and find the truth. The utter black of night and the blinding white of the sun… neither are ideal. It is that murky shade of silver, that vague bit of Darkness, where we all ought to dwell, for there we shall prosper. Some are too Dark, and others are lost in the sunlight. It is for that reason that we need a Dark Lord - a man like me - to help us think, and dream, and find the truth."

Hermione felt rather dizzy as she listened to Tom speak, and she wasn't entirely certain whether it was from the whisky or his words. Betty's hand flew frantically as she struggled to keep up with Tom's words. When at last her fingers stilled upon the page, she gazed up wide-eyed and pink-cheeked. She looked beside her to Abraxas, who appeared just as flustered, and she said to Tom,

"My Lord, I do not know that this ought to be a multi-question interview. Perhaps… erm… perhaps just a photograph and a great long quote from you. I… I think your words speak for themselves."

Tom looked satisfied as he finished his second tumbler of whisky. His eyes glazed over and he rose to his feet, swaying where he stood. He nodded down at Abraxas and Betty and said in a tipsy drawl,

"Right. Send that off to your editor, then, Miss Cattermole. I look forward to seeing it published. Abraxas… I think the Lady and I shall make an early evening of it. Leave you two to talk, eh?"

Hermione watched as Abraxas nodded gratefully at Tom, and she thought perhaps Tom knew something she didn't. Her heart raced as she wondered again whether Abraxas meant to propose marriage to Betty. She flung herself to her feet, feeling positively woozy as she clutched at Tom's hand. She bid Abraxas and Betty goodnight and tried not to stumble from the room.

Their bedroom was blue with moonlight when Tom flung the door open and pushed Hermione gently inside. They light from the moon was so bright that they didn't bother lighting a candle or fire - Hermione figured the heat would be uncomfortable, anyway. Tom shut the door behind him and started unbuttoning his white shirt as he shook his head and grinned crookedly.

" _Really_ , Hermione," he scoffed, wiggling clumsily out of his vest and tossing it carelessly onto the ground, " _Witch Weekly?_ They'll burn the place down trying to steal me from you."

"You're drunk," Hermione teased, pushing Tom's white shirt from his torso and letting it fall to the floor. He nodded casually and she smelled the whisky on him as he admitted,

"I am, a little."

"More than a little." Hermione shook her head and felt her own mind swimming. She started working on the buttons at Tom's waist and clucked, "You're not doing too badly for a man who's bound to be passed out in bed in twenty minutes."

He put his hands over hers at his waist and she looked up into his glassy eyes. He looked rather serious and whispered, "Twenty minutes to fuck you into the sheets, then."

Hermione gasped, scandalised. He'd never once used that word like that, not toward her. She instinctively reached up as though she were going to slap him, thinking that maybe she'd make him come to his senses. But, even drunk as he was, he managed to snatch her hand out of the air, and he kissed the inside of her wrist carefully. He kissed all the way up her arm until he reached the crook of her elbow, and Hermione felt a heady rush that shot straight between her thighs.

"Tom," she whispered, shutting her eyes firmly and gulping, "you're very drunk and you're high on the little speech that you gave out there. That's all."

"I want to fuck you," Tom murmured against Hermione's skin, and she scowled,

"Stop saying that."

But there was a warm, insistent throbbing between her legs that did not go away at all as Tom's mouth moved to hers. He tasted like whisky, like wine, like cinnamon and caramel. He put his hands on the small of her back and pulled her against him and she felt his hardness against her stomach. Hermione's knees buckled a bit from her own lack of sobriety and her own arousal.

"Bed. Now." She was whispering frantically against his mouth all of a sudden, though she didn't quite know why she was giving him what he wanted. Perhaps, she realised, it was because it also happened to be what _she_ wanted. In any case, he smirked like a fiend as he pushed her roughly so that she stumbled backward and landed with an _oof_ upon the mattress.

He climbed up onto the bed and wriggled out of his trousers and underwear. Hermione lay upon her back, staring up at the ceiling and feeling a sick sort of spinning in her head. She was drunk, too, she realised. Good thing she was already married to the man in her bed, she thought distantly, or else she might have been making some sort of terrible mistake.

Her hand drifted rather of its own accord between her thighs, and her eyes fluttered shut. Her fingers started pulsing against her nub, and it felt good. It felt _right_ , like she existed solely to be caressed there. Her skin started to grow warm and prickle and tingle. She felt her nipples go hard, felt her womanhood flush and swell. Then she remembered that Tom was in bed with her, and her eyes flew open. Her hand stilled and she glanced up to see him hovering beside her, sitting back on his haunches with his hand around his own manhood. His glazed eyes shone with a drunken arousal, and he raked his fingers through his hair as he said with blurred words,

"Please keep touching yourself. I like to watch you."

Hermione quirked up a teasing smile, basking in the rare semblance of control over him. She pulled her hand away from her quim and whispered, "I thought you wanted to fuck me."

Tom's face went rather sombre then, and he squared his jaw as he promised, "I'm going to. I'm going to watch you touch yourself; I'm going to watch you squirm and moan and clench around your own fingers. And then I'm going to make you do it around my cock."

Hermione giggled softly, letting her fingers glide over her flat stomach, past her little thatch of hair until they delved back into her wet warmth. She sighed happily and stared at Tom as she bucked her hips against her hand.

"You say terrible things when you're drunk, you know," she informed him. Then she moaned rather wantonly as a crush of pleasure surged through her. She was getting closer to the edge, she knew. She shut her eyes, quickened her fingers, and smashed the base of her hand against her nub relentlessly. She heard Tom groan softly beside her, and then he mumbled clumsily,

"I - I need to take you."

"All right," Hermione whispered, pulsing her fingers ever more insistently.

" _Now,_ " Tom growled. Hermione's eyes flew open as she saw him moving to perch himself above her. Hermione made a move to position herself on her hands and knees. She knew that when Tom wanted it hard and fast, he liked to enter her from behind. But he grabbed at her thighs and dragged her onto her back again. He pinned her down by her shoulders, shoving her legs apart with his knee. His breath was shallow and frantic as his dark eyes glittered in the moonlight.

"I need to see your face," he informed her, and she nodded. She found it interesting, with some corner of her mind, that he kept using that word. _Need._ He didn't 'want' anything just now, apparently _,_ though he _needed_ a great many things. She reached up to touch his hair as he pulled her knees up around his waist. She moaned and squirmed as he pushed into her, her fingers tightening in his hair. He hissed as he filled her and began thrusting steadily, his hips drawing out and pushing in like a piston.

Hermione relished the look on his face as he moved, the way his dark eyes were wrenched shut in concentration. She adored the way his teeth dug into his bottom lip, the way a crease appeared between his eyebrows. She could see a flush on his cheeks, even in the dim moonlight. There was a prominent vein in the side of his neck as he flexed his body. Hermione took in every detail, massaging his scalp all the while.

She squeezed her thighs around his hips, feeling a shock of pleasure every time he pushed into her. His length rubbed the outside of her in just the right places as he moved. He filled her, snugly and completely, with every thrust, leaving her wanting more each time he pulled away. She only realised she was moaning when she started chanting his name like a prayer, and then he reached down between them to circle his thumb around her nub.

That suddenly sent Hermione catapulting off the edge of an unseen cliff. She hadn't realised she'd been so close to climax, but then she was clenching and clamping around him. Her ears were ringing and hot, her body was thrumming and her heart was racing. She cried out and grabbed for his shoulders, arching her back and driving her head back against the pillow.

Then, _very_ abruptly, she felt Tom yank himself from her body and watched as he jerked himself a few times above her. She was still coming down from her own high as his seed flew onto her belly in uneven volleys, landing in obscene milky puddles on her moonlit skin.

At some point, Tom cleaned the both of them up, but Hermione didn't remember much else after that. She vaguely recalled Tom pointing his wand at her abdomen as she curled up against him. She heard him murmur a contraceptive spell since they'd both been blinded by whisky and lust ahead of time. Then she was sleeping beside Tom's naked form, dreaming of a world where everyone did everything he said.

* * *

 _July 1945_

Hermione sorted through the stack of letters and thick envelopes that had arrived to Malfoy Manor that morning by owl. There were several responses to the dinner party on the fifteenth - naturally, everyone who had been invited had said they would attend. There were a few letters from families like the Averys and the Notts, writing to pledge more financial support. There were offers of employment from Minister Spencer-Moon, one each for Hermione and Tom. And then there was a thick envelope with writing on the outside that Hermione recognised as Betty Cattermole's. Inside was a scrap of parchment that read,

 _My Lord and Lady,_

 _This issue is due to be released on Monday - here is an advanced copy. I do hope you enjoy it. We've made the front page! - Betty_

Hermione cast the little paper aside and pulled out the copy of _Witch Weekly_ inside. She grinned widely when she saw the full-page photograph of Tom on the cover. It was a handsome black-and-white image, a close-up of his face. He looked at once playful and serious, his dark eyes shimmering and one corner of his mouth curling up just so. But he also looked authoritative in the way only he knew how to do. The headline on the cover read,

 _RISING DARK LORD DECLARES, 'WE NEED A MAN LIKE ME.' Details on Page 7!_

Hermione flicked through the magazine, past a lengthy article called, "Which Witch Got Her Lipstick Right This Week?" She finally came to page seven and saw another photo of Tom, this one of him seated in a chair in the Manor. One hand was planted on each arm of the chair, his fingers sprawled and gripping. His posture was confident and his eyes were piercing in this photo. The way he moved in the wizarding photograph was enticing - he dragged his thumb over his bottom lip and then planted his hand back upon the armchair before tapping his left foot a few times.

The photograph of of Tom took up the entire right side of the page. On the left side, in larger-than-usual typeface, Hermione read the words Tom had spoken when they'd all gathered to drink whisky together.

' _I grow weary of a wizarding world that so slowly moves forward...'_

* * *

 _15 July 1945_

Tom sipped from his goblet of elf-made wine - probably the finest he'd ever had - and gazed down the length of the enormous table in Malfoy Manor's dining-room.

The table was lined with faces. Some were familiar, most were new, but all were staring intently at Tom. He flicked his eyes to one middle-aged wizard - the father of Druella Rosier - and he asked,

"Mr Rosier, how did you find the meal?"

"All the food was entirely delicious, My Lord," Rosier said automatically. Tom cocked his head and narrowed his eyes at Rosier, who shifted and seemed suddenly nervous. Tom flashed a cocky grin and asked,

"Are you certain?"

"Y-yes, My Lord," Rosier stammered. Tom felt a flush of gratification wash through him as he realised an opportunity to demonstrate his abilities to his new followers. He nodded with feigned nonchalance, set down his wine glass, and folded his hands upon the table. Then he looked back up to Rosier and said softly,

" _Legilimens."_

Rosier's mind cracked open like an eggshell, and Tom watched as the man slumped a bit in his chair and gripped at his skull. Tom worked quickly, flipping through useless images of Ministry work and a rather plump whore in Knockturn Alley. He finally arrived at memories of the food they'd just eaten, and he mentally skidded to a halt, focusing hard on Rosier's perception of the meal. He watched one particular thought for a moment and smirked. Once he was satisfied, Tom yanked quickly out of Rosier's head and smoothly picked up his wine goblet. He sipped at the blood-red wine as he waited for Rosier to collect himself. The others around the table ogled in shocked silence, except for Hermione, who seemed unfazed as she sighed gently beside Tom. He set his goblet back down and dragged his thumb over his bottom lip thoughtfully.

"You found the lamb to be rather dry," he said casually to Rosier, whose cheeks reddened at once. The elder man began to stammer an apology, but Tom interrupted with a more specific observation. "The warm brie-and-apple tartlets made you think of a young woman you met, a long time ago, in France. They made you wonder what had become of her. Anneliese...? She had a pretty face on her. Do you think of her every time you eat brie-and-apple tartlets?"

Rosier's red cheeks blanched then, so that he was pale as a ghost. He looked as though he might faint, and his hands gripped the edge of the table as his mouth fell open. Around the table, the others exchanged nervous glances or simply stared down into their laps in fearful, impressed silence. Tom quirked up a self-satisfied grin and flicked his eyes to Hermione. She pinched her lips a bit and took a draught of her own wine. It was the only movement at the table.

"My friends," Tom said then, his voice barely above a whisper, "I urge you never to tell me lies. Even ones as simple as saying that dry lamb was acceptable. I can always tell when I'm on the receiving end of a lie - _always_. You will all remember that, won't you?"

There was a split second of silence, and then Nereus Malfoy murmured quietly, "Of course we will, My Lord."

Then tremulous grumblings of assent trickled around the table, and Tom felt flush with power. He plastered an artificially warm smile upon his face and rose quickly from his chair, prompting the entire table to do the same - all except Hermione. Tom glanced down to her and held out a hand, which she accepted and slowly rose to her feet. Tom glanced about the table and said,

"It is a fine evening, and the sun is still above the horizon. I think I shall venture out into the gardens for a bit of a look at all the marvelous flowers the Malfoys have cultivated. My Lady, will you join me?"

"Of course, My Lord." Hermione's look then was dangerous, Tom thought. Unreadable, even to him. Her chestnut eyes were blank and stony as she curled up her mouth into a Cheshire Cat smile. A strange little quiver of unease ran down Tom's spine at her demeanour, but he shoved it away at once and led Hermione from the dining-room.

When they were safely out of earshot of the room full of sycophants, Hermione released Tom's hand and quickened her steps. He frowned deeply at her and lengthened his own stride to keep up. She walked briskly out the front doors of Malfoy Manor, wordless and determined, and Tom demanded,

"What's made you so cross, then?"

"Be silent until we're outside, will you?" Hermione hissed, and Tom recoiled a bit at the force with which she scolded him. He snatched her hand and muttered in a low voice,

"If someone looks out the window, we need to be the picture of serene love, you understand?"

She huffed and squeezed his hand, glancing a bit over her shoulder. She was lovely in the setting sun, Tom thought absently. She'd donned a long black gown for the dinner party, taffeta with a cape like the one she'd worn when they'd received the Order of Merlin. This one had a silver sash about the waist that was inlaid with glittering crystals, matched by her earrings and heavy necklace. Her hair had been swept into elegant curls, her arms were covered with black opera-length gloves, and her lips were painted blood-red. She was a vision of elegance, Tom thought. A true Dark Lady. But at the moment she looked properly angry, and he whispered again,

"What is the matter with you?"

"Lazarus Greengrass," Hermione replied simply. Tom frowned. Greengrass, the handsome twenty-something about whom Hermione had warned him, had attended the dinner party. He hadn't said much, at least not to Tom. He had noticed Greengrass mingling at length with Hermione during the cocktail hour, but Tom had been too busy meeting the others to work his way into their conversation. Now he wondered just what Greengrass had been saying to Hermione all that time.

"Did he push himself on you?" Tom asked, pausing in his steps as they wended through the rose gardens. He turned toward Hermione and looked down at her sceptical face. She rolled her eyes and sighed, but he asked again, "What did he do to you?"

"Not every young man behaves like Ladon Scamander," Hermione said pointedly, "though Lazarus Greengrass may honestly be worse. That does _not_ mean I want you to murder anybody," she amended quickly, recommencing her steps and urging Tom to walk with her again. Her long black gown dragged on the grass behind her, swishing gently. Tom chewed the inside of his cheek and said softly,

"You do not trust him, and therefore neither do I. What did he say or do to instill in you such unease about him?"

"The conversation started innocently enough. At first, I thought he _was_ flirting with me," Hermione admitted. She gripped Tom's hand a bit more tightly as they passed through the white roses into a grove of apple trees. She lowered her voice as she relayed, "But then he suddenly said, 'So you're the little girl who destroyed my Inferi.' And I balked at that, of course. I was rather horrified. He looked so... _amused_ , you know. It was awful. So I laughed, awkwardly, and I said, 'I'm the witch who incinerated the Inferi at Nurmengard. I shan't apologise for destroying your macabre creations, Mr Greengrass.' And he looked terribly serious then, and he actually _touched_ me. My shoulder."

Tom felt a flush of rage then, and he glanced back to Malfoy Manor. He didn't even need Hermione to finish talking. He could just push his feet off the ground and fly back to the dining-room and kill Lazarus Greengrass now. But Hermione relentlessly continued,

"He leaned down and whispered in my ear, 'I believe your husband may overestimate himself, Madam Riddle.' And then stood up and smiled and me, and he said, 'Children ought not play at games such as these.'"

"What did he do then?" Tom asked tightly. He stopped walking, suddenly not caring whether anyone in the manor was watching. Hermione hesitated for a moment, but Tom squeezed her hand harder and seethed down at her,

"Either tell me what he did, or I shall look into your mind like I did to that man in the dining-room. What did Lazarus Greengrass do then?"

Hermione yanked her hand away from him and growled. She flexed and squeezed her hand a few times, and he realised quickly that he'd hurt her. But he had no time to apologise, and he reached to pull his wand from his robes as he whispered, "Hermione, I need to know -"

"He told me that you aren't as powerful as you think. That he thought I was pretty, and that if I'd managed to destroy his Inferi, I must have 'a decent brain in my skull.'" Hermione looked irate as she repeated Greengrass' words. She shook a bit as she massaged the hand Tom had crushed. "'It's a damned shame that a catch like you's gone to a bloke like him,' he told me. 'A boy playing at being a man.' Then he walked away and I didn't speak to him any more all night. Or hardly anyone else, really, since I was so shaken."

"Stay here," Tom commanded, and he whirled on his heels to stalk back to the Manor. Hermione grabbed at his arm and cried,

"Wait! Tom, no! You can't just... not everyone is going to like you straight away. That doesn't give you a licence to go about murdering human beings."

Tom took a deep breath and pulled his arm out of her grasp. "They don't have to like me," he said, "but they _will_ obey me. And the ones who don't?"

He shrugged and scoffed, reaching into his wand and pulling out the wand he'd taken off Gellert Grindelwald's body. He trotted away from Hermione, ignoring the way she called his name a few times before giving up. He left her standing there in the gardens, in her elaborate black gown, fuming and shaking with fury. She knew better than to make a scene by chasing him into the house.

As Tom stormed up the stone staircase inside Malfoy Manor, he could hear quiet conversations and the tinkling of glassware upstairs. He could hear the sounds of bewitched string instruments playing themselves, the crackle of a fire that had recently been lit. And he could pick out the reedy voice of Lazarus Greengrass through all of it.

Tom tightened his grip around his wand, stalking briskly into the receiving space without speaking a word. The room went quiet; conversations died at the sight of him and the self-playing instruments skittered to a halt. All the eyes in the room watched as Tom pulled up in front of Lazarus Greengrass, who was conversing with Abraxas and Nereus Malfoy and a few members of the Avery family. Everyone except Greengrass bowed and muttered respectful greetings.

"Mr Greengrass, I am afraid you have grossly misunderstood my intent in bringing you here this evening," Tom said quietly. Lazarus Greengrass quirked up a cocky smile and sipped from his snifter of brandy.

"Nonsense, Mr Riddle. A wonderful evening was enjoyed by all."

Tom squared his jaw but kept his face impassive as he allowed a moment for the insubordination to register among the rest of the room's inhabitants. Then he gave a knowing little nod and said, so softly that others leaned in to hear,

"Not only have you misunderstood me, Mr Greengrass, but you have underestimated me. What was it you said to my wife? 'Children ought not play at games such as these.' But I am no child, Mr Greengrass, and this is no game. _Avada Kedavra._ "

In one fluid movement, Tom raised his wand and cast the Killing Curse, feeling a mad jolt of satisfaction as the telltale green light burst forth. Lazarus Greengrass crumpled into a motionless heap upon the floor. His brandy snifter fell with him and shattered upon the ground, drenching Greengrass' robes in liquor. Tom stared at the silent corpse for a moment and then turned to face the room full of wide eyes and gulping throats. Heads bowed and a few throats cleared nervously. Tom calmly tucked his wand into his robes and said in a clear, confident voice,

"My friends, I apologise for spoiling the evening with such violence. I'm afraid Mr Greengrass left me no choice. I trust you all understand why it is we can not abide such disrespect in our ranks. Now... I shall retire for the evening. I thank you all for coming. It has been an honour and a pleasure to make all of your acquaintances. I do hope each and every one of you will stay in close communication as our cause grows. I hope I can count on all of your support."

He walked out of the dining room without another word, deliberately stepping around the body of Lazarus Greengrass as he did.

* * *

 _October 1963_

Georgiana sat upon her dormitory bed and opened the parcel that her mother had sent her. A little square of parchment fell out, and Georgiana felt her eyes burn when she saw her mother's neat script.

 _The happiest of birthdays to you, Georgie. I miss you terribly and think of you constantly. Write more often, will you? - Mum_

Inside the parcel were two cashmere cardigans, one dark blue and the other mustard yellow. They were soft and very stylish, and Georgiana smirked at the way her mother managed to stay atop Muggle fashions.

"Thanks, Mummy," she whispered, putting the gift aside as she reached for the other envelope with her name on it. She stared at it for a long moment, swallowing the lump in her throat as she traced her finger over her father's handwriting. Finally, she tore into the envelope and pulled out a letter.

 _Dear Georgie,_

 _When your mother told me you'd been sorted into Ravenclaw, I admit I had a rather perplexing series of reactions. First, I felt a twinge of disappointment that you hadn't managed to convince the Hat to put you into Slytherin. (You can do that, you know - tell the Hat where to put you.) Then I felt a demented sort of gratification that you hadn't wound up in Gryffindor. The last thing I need at holidays is two female lionesses railing on about the merits of that particular House. Then I thought, 'Well, at least she isn't a Hufflepuff.' Eventually I started congratulating myself on producing a witch brainy enough to be sorted into Ravenclaw._

 _But then I realised that you could have been a Slytherin - after all, you have always been ambitious. Perhaps you do not recall, but when you were very small I found you hauling a bucket of water up the stone staircase of the Regia. I asked you what you were doing, and you said you meant to make your very own ocean in your playroom. You were 'hauling in the stream,' you told me. Rather ambitious for a four-year-old._

 _Then I thought that you would have made a splendid Gryffindor, for you are nothing if not brave. Just last year you were so determined to fly without a broom that you managed eight broken bones and an owl from Madam Jones on underage use of magic. Quite frankly, I was more concerned about your mother that day than I was about you._

 _Of course, you could have been a Hufflepuff. You are terribly kind, you know. Sometimes rather annoyingly so. Do you remember that time you kept an earthworm in a cardboard box because it was 'broken'? You said you were nursing it back to health. It died, of course, because you didn't give it any food or water. But that wasn't what mattered; you meant to help the silly little worm. So I replaced it with a live one. Four times._

 _But you shall be a grand Ravenclaw, Georgie. For, rather like your mother, my fondest memories of you involve hearing your voice rattling off facts you found in books. They involve seeing you hovering over maps with a magnifying glass in your hand. My favourite memory of your childhood is when you overheard a business meeting of mine, barged into my office, and began lecturing Mr Malfoy and myself on why we ought to consider the history of centaur-wizarding relations when shaping policy. You were seven. We took your advice._

 _The truth, Georgie, is that I would be proud of you no matter if you live in the Slytherin dungeons or in Ravenclaw Tower. All I can hope is that you're enjoying yourself at school, that you've made friends and that you sleep soundly at night. I hope the food is as delectable as it was when I was a boy. And I hope you know that your mother and I miss you terribly._

 _Happy twelfth birthday, Georgie._

 _\- Father_

* * *

 _October 1967_

"My birthday was yesterday, Bilius." Georgiana plunked down her library book and gave her dear friend an exaggerated scowl. "I'm afraid you've missed it."

Bilius Weasley stuck his tongue out at Georgiana as he slid into a chair opposite hers. Their conversation earned them a disapproving glare from the librarian, and Bilius gestured theatrically to apologise to the old witch. Then he turned to Georgiana and slid a rectangular box across the table to her.

"I know full well when your birthday is," he informed her, "but this hadn't arrived yet."

Georgiana smiled at him, but her happiness turned into panic when the box suddenly convulsed on the table and squeaked.

"There is something alive in that box," she intoned, noticing for the first time the ventilation holes in the cardboard.

"Then I suggest you open it," Bilius whispered wickedly. Georgiana sighed at him, fingers shaking as she tore into the twine holding the lid to the bottom of the box. She heard him add in a serious tone, "It's just a token to demonstrate my undying love for you."

Georgiana snorted with laughter then, pausing before she pulled the lid off the box. "Your _love_ for me?" she teased, and Bilius nodded imperiously. Then they both dissolved into mad giggles, and the librarian shushed them with a glare again.

Georgiana steadied herself and pulled the lid off the box, revealing a little golden creature with purple stripes in its fur. It shook itself out and stared up at her, wide-eyed and content.

"Ohhh," Georgiana gasped softly, pulling the Pygmy Puff out of the box, "I used to have one as a little girl!"

"Yes. I'd heard that Bellatrix Black threw it into a fireplace," Bilius lamented.

"She _did_ , because she was a wicked and awful child!" Georgiana giggled quietly as she petted the little animal. Then she turned her dark eyes to Bilius and asked slyly, "Perhaps we should call him 'Phoenix,' since he's rather risen from the ashes of his unfortunate predecessor."

"That sounds appropriate." Bilius sat back in his chair and folded his arms over his chest with a self-satisfied smirk. Then he looked a bit nervous for a moment, swallowing visibly and clearing his throat before he asked, "Last bit of fine weather, perhaps. Care to take a walk about the grounds?"

"Can't you see I'm working?" Georgiana cocked her head toward the essay she'd been working on when he barged in. She flashed him a little smirk when he shook his head and muttered,

"Ravenclaws are _no_ fun." He rose from his chair and tousled Georgiana's smooth black hair, eliciting a little howl of protest. He surveyed the mess he'd made on her head and teased her, "That's better."

"Oh, get on, you," Georgiana moaned, fixing her hair with one hand whilst she cradled her little Pygmy Puff in the other. She glanced down to the animal and back up to her dearest friend, and said begrudgingly, "Thanks for the gift."

"Don't mention it. Happy birthday, Georgie." Bilius winked charmingly at her and strode from the library. Georgiana watched him go, watched the way he raked through his fiery hair as he pushed open the doors to the corridor.

 _A token to demonstrate my undying love for you_ , he'd said, and of course Georgiana had assumed he'd been completely joking. But as she tried to finish her essay, distracted by the Pygmy Puff and by Bilius, she wondered whether it had been a joke after all.

* * *

 _August 1945_

"I wonder whether you might be willing to give me a bit of advice."

Hermione glanced up from the book she had been reading and cocked her eyebrows. "On what?"

Tom hesitated for a moment as he strode toward Hermione's chair. She'd been reading on the lawn in front of Malfoy Manor, for the weather was sunny and mild. Tom, it seemed, had been holed up for the past two weeks inside the house. He was working, he'd told Hermione, on a new potion which would allow the drinker to hear thoughts without eye contact. She'd offered to help (many times), but Tom had insisted he was still in the "hypothetical stage" of development.

Now, though, he paused and sighed heavily as he approached her.

"I've reached a bit of a roadblock," he admitted quietly, and Hermione set her book down upon the grass. She tried to keep her face blank as she nodded. It wouldn't help anything to embarrass him by reveling in his roundabout request for help. Tom jammed his hands into the pockets of his robes and continued, "I've got a prototype potion which has allowed me to hear whispering echoes of the thoughts around me. I took it late last night and I heard Abraxas Malfoy's mind. He was thinking rather revolting notions about Betty Cattermole's lady bits as he touched himself in his room."

Hermione snorted and shaded her eyes as she giggled up at Tom. "Sounds like it's working. What's the problem, exactly?"

Tom pinched his lips and shifted upon his feet. "Obviously, this potion will not be intended for public distribution. It is to remain secret. It's for my own use -"

"What's the problem, Tom?" Hermione asked again, crossing her arms over her chest. He cleared his throat and muttered,

"I need you to try it. I suspect it may be allowing two-way telepathic communication rather than one-way thought reception."

Hermione felt a strange pang of curiosity then. She pushed herself up off of the chair and smoothed her skirt. "What makes you say that?"

Tom's cheeks reddened and he suddenly looked rather uncomfortable in the day's heat, tugging at the neck of his robe and swiping sweat from his brow. "Abraxas could feel me in his head. He told me just now. 'I wanted to let you know, My Lord, that I was very aware of your presence in my mind last night.' That's what he said. Then he looked quite embarrassed and mumbled something about seeing my own thoughts of you."

Hermione laughed so uproariously then that Tom looked properly cross with her. She gathered herself and said very seriously, "All right. So you received Abraxas' fantasy about Betty. And it triggered some obscene thoughts in your own mind. And you believe that, after taking the potion, you opened up your own mind in addition to receiving information. Have I got that right?"

"That's right." Tom nodded, but Hermione firmly shook her head.

"Well, I didn't get any thoughts from you last night."

Tom put his mouth into a flat line. "You were already asleep. I heard your dreaming thoughts, though I could already watch you dream through Legilimency. You dreamed of that bespectacled boy - _Harry Potter_ \- and a red-haired young man you called 'Ron.' The three of you were drinking butterbeers in the Three Broomsticks and discussing how important Albus Dumbledore was to the salvation of mankind."

Now it was Hermione's turn to struggle with embarrassment. She gulped heavily and stammered, "Y-you didn't know the same Albus Dumbledore I did. He was a good wizard, a good person -"

"I don't care." Tom shrugged, and Hermione opened her mouth to angrily retort. But then Tom clarified, "That is to say, the content of your dream is of little relevance to my present concerns. I need to know whether or not this potion creates a two-way pathway for telepathy. If it does, I might be able to exploit that feature instead of fearing it."

Hermione nodded knowingly. "You would still want to find a potion that accomplished your original aims, but even this apparently flawed prototype might have merit."

Tom sighed. "Precisely. Now, there remains the possibility that someone here could read my mind if I take the potion - not exactly an occurrence I wish to risk again. It would seem that the wisest solution would be to take you somewhere profoundly isolated and try the potion there."

Hermione swallowed heavily again. For some reason she could not properly articulate, the idea of going somewhere far away and empty with Tom made her both nervous and excited.

"Will you come with me to Benbecula?" she heard Tom asking, and she frowned. Benbecula? She'd heard of the tiny island in the Outer Hebrides off Scotland's west coast. Tom shifted on his feet again and said carefully, "I've arranged to stay for a while in a little cottage near the sea there. To work on the potion, you know. I... I took the liberty of packing some necessities and I used your rather ingenious Expanding idea..."

He pulled a little leather drawstring pouch from his robes then, and Hermione felt a proud little smile cross her lips. She nodded and stepped up to where Tom was, and she took his hand in hers. "Let's go, then," she said, and Tom smirked. Then he shut his eyes and Hermione was suddenly being pinched and whirled and yanked as she and Tom Disapparated from Malfoy Manor.

* * *

 _August 1980_

Georgiana stepped up to the door of the brick building before her. She glanced down at the bit of parchment in her hand and checked the address again. Then she read the sign upon the door.

 _Granger Dental Practice_

Georgie felt a queasy sensation ripple through her as she gave the Muggle receptionist a falsified address and paid awkwardly with paper notes.

"Mrs Granger will be with you shortly," the cheerful blonde receptionist chirped, returning to the gossip magazine she'd been reading. Georgiana sat in the waiting room and fiddled with her Muggle-style blue jeans and blouse. She watched as the receptionist blew gum bubbles and sang along absently with the radio as she flipped through her magazine.

" _Xanadu... We are in Xanadu..."_ the receptionist trilled, and it occurred to Georgiana that Muggles lived very strange lives indeed.

At long last, Georgiana was led to a little exam room with oppressively bright overhead lights and terrifying-looking equipment. She gingerly sat in the grey chair when the nurse gestured to it.

"So, Mrs Weasley, what brings you in to see the dentist today?" The nurse began arranging items upon a tray, and Georgie gulped.

"I have a toothache," she said automatically, just like her mother had told her to do. She described her fake malady in further detail - yes, sweets made it worse - and pointed vaguely to her molars when asked which tooth hurt. Then there was a brief and horrifying invasion of her mouth, which the nurse dared to call a 'cleaning.'

It seemed like an eternity before a Muggle woman in her thirties strolled in and took over, introducing herself as Mrs Granger.

"Are you new to the area, Mrs Weasley?" the dentist asked after some time. "We encountered some difficulty tracking down your records."

"Oh... My husband and I have recently returned to Britain after a great while abroad. We want to start a family near my parents," Georgiana lied, rinsing her mouth and rubbing her jaw, sore from keeping her mouth open so long. The dentist nodded knowingly and started preparing a rather petrifying assortment of tools.

"It certainly seems as though it would be difficult to raise a child abroad with no family to help," the dentist said absently. Georgiana gulped and asked,

"Have you any children, Mrs Granger?"

"No... We never did have children. But I can imagine the difficulty." The dentist began cleaning a pick, and Georgiana felt her stomach sink. This woman was meant to be her grandmother. Her own mother should have been an infant belonging to this dentist. How could she say she had no children?

Georgiana felt queasy as the dentist worked on her mouth. Her father had suggested that they might be living in what he called a "parallel timeline" from what Georgie's mother had known as a child. To Georgiana, it seemed bizarre to contemplate that the world her mother had been born into was entirely separate from her existence... Yet both were real and valid. In the timeline from which Hermione Granger had been sent back, this dentist woman would have a little girl. In this "parallel timeline," Hermione Granger existed only as the Dark Lady who had appeared out of thin air in the year 1944.

As Mrs Granger - her 'grandmother' - filled a cavity in Georgiana's mouth, she could not help but wonder how many realities existed simultaneously, and what her place was in each of them.

* * *

 _August 1945_

It was terribly foggy on Benbecula, and the air was colder than it had been in Wiltshire. The cottage on the sea coast had been gifted to Tom by a renegade member of the Moody family nearly a month earlier, ' _for whatever use the Dark Lord may find in having a remote property.'_

He and Hermione spent the first hour or so at the cottage casting all manner of wards and protective spells. It seemed that Hermione's shields against magic were particularly strong, whilst Tom was more gifted with Muggle-repellent work. By the time they'd both finished, the little white cottage seemed impenetrable.

"How long do you intend to stay here?" Hermione asked once they'd settled inside. She stared out the rippled glass window at the grey churning sea, at the swaying sea oats and at the hopping birds in the sand. Tom shrugged and murmured,

"Until we want to go back." When Hermione smirked up at him, he clarified, "I want to perfect this potion and work on a few other innovative spells. In private, so that the things I want to publicise seem more impressive once I reveal them. And I shall need your help with all of that. Besides, it is good for a rising leader to maintain something of an elusive mystique, don't you agree? In any case, we shall be here for a few weeks, at least, I should think."

Hermione looked satisfied with that answer. She stepped away to explore the tiny cottage's single whitewashed bedroom, the little old kitchen with its obviously dysfunctional hob, the blackened fireplace in the centre of the miniature home. Tom watched her as she touched and examined the place, wondering whether she was disgusted by the idea of staying here. But then she raised her eyes to him across the little sitting-room, and she grinned widely.

"It's charming," she assured Tom. Then, striding confidently toward him, she held out her hand with obvious expectation. "Let me try the potion, then."

Tom felt a flutter of anxiety roil through his chest as he reached into the breast pocket of his robes. He pulled out a vial of the potion he'd been working on for weeks and held it out to Hermione.

" _Mentibus Unum_ Solution," he said carefully.

She took the little glass container and held it up to the light of the window. She studied the clear blue liquid for a moment and asked,

"What's in it?"

Tom cleared his throat, suddenly wishing he'd taken Hermione up on her offer for assistance developing the potion. His prototype was crude and imperfect, and it was with some shame that he rattled off the ingredients.

"Augurey blood, hyacinth oil, boomslang skin, powdered unicorn horn, and a few other bits and bobs."

Hermione frowned deeply as she said thoughtfully to Tom, "Wouldn't the hyacinth oil create intense mental vulnerability?"

Tom felt his cheeks colour. Of course, the same concern had occurred to him, but it had been the only ingredient he could think of using that would create a Legilimency-like effect of any kind.

"What would you suggest instead?" he asked crossly, and Hermione shrugged. She shook the vial gently and held it up to the light again.

"I suppose you do need the hyacinth oil for an invasive effect," she admitted, "but perhaps you could add a bit of saltpetre for defence of the drinker's mind."

Tom felt a wash of humility then, realising she was right. All he needed was to add saltpetre, and the potion would likely allow one-way telepathy instead of widespread mental vulnerability.

"That is precisely what I shall do." He nodded and moved to take the vial from Hermione's hand. She snatched it away and frowned.

"First," she said rather firmly, "I think it would be wise to try the prototype. In order to help you refine the potion, I shall need to know how it works in this form."

Tom watched her tip the vial back into her mouth and grimace at its terrible taste. Then, very abruptly, his head vibrated with the sound of Hermione's voice.

 _Ugh. Tastes like rotten eggs and too-sour lemons and cheese gone off... Couldn't have made it strawberry-flavoured, eh?_

Tom felt his eyes go wide. Hermione had been the one to take the potion, just as he had been at Malfoy Manor. Abraxas hadn't been lying, then. The drinker did indeed open up his or her thoughts freely to those in close proximity.

Suddenly Hermione smirked rather wickedly up at Tom, her face smug and self-satisfied.

 _So whose fantasies were more salacious?_ She thought loudly, making Tom's head buzz. _Abraxas' visions of Betty, or yours of me?_

Tom cocked his head to the side as he realised Hermione was inside his mind as much as he was inside hers. He concentrated for a moment on the thoughts that he assumed Abraxas had witnessed.

Hermione bent over a table with him pummeling her from behind. The two of them drenched under the fall of a shower, kissing madly and groping at one another's wet skin. Hermione down on her knees with Tom's cock in her mouth moaning like a harlot.

Suddenly she had closed the distance between them and her fingers were working on the clasps of Tom's robe as if her life depended on getting him nude immediately.

He could feel every sensation of want coiling inside of her, could hear the words rattling desperately inside her head.

 _Take me into the bedroom, Tom Riddle. Right now. And I will show you what exactly I think about while you're doing those things to me._

* * *

 _August 1945_

 _Slow down, Hermione._

Tom had settled himself nude upon the squat little bed in the cottage's only bedroom. He had propped himself up against the pillows and lay half-reclined upon the dark green coverlet. The light from the single window shone into the room in dusty beams that illuminated Hermione's form as she rushed to strip off her robes and underwear. Tom wrapped his fingers around his cock as she raised wide eyes to him, and then he thought again,

 _Slow down. I want to see every bit of you revealed to me._

Her cheeks flushed a deep scarlet, and then there was a scattered jumble of emotion radiating from her mind. Arousal and nervous desire mingled with a strangely insistent thought that Tom would have never expected from Hermione.

 _Spanked... I want to be spanked by him... Want him to smack my arse and I've no idea why... I want it to sting, want to feel my arse go hot and pink as he -_

Suddenly Tom realised that thought in particular wasn't meant for him.

"No, it wasn't," Hermione admitted aloud, looking embarrassed as she peeled off her outer robes and let them fall upon the floor. As she worked to unclasp her knee-length dress, she mumbled, "But I suppose nothing in my mind is private at the moment."

Tom smirked until he realised she could see straight into his head, too. Spanking, eh? That was a suggestion he would have never thought Hermione would make. She seemed too strong-willed, too determined and headstrong, to submit willingly to physical punishment... no matter how staged and affectionate.

 _I truly have no idea why it appeals to me,_ Hermione mentally admitted to him, her thoughts making his head buzz almost painfully. She pulled her dress over her head and Tom gulped, feeling his cock swell in his hand at the sight of her in her knickers and brassiere. Hermione smiled a bit as she processed his increased arousal, and then her thoughts were clear again. _There's something oddly appealing about the idea of having my arse slapped by the hands of the Dark Lord himself. Sex is strange, isn't it...?_

She stalked toward the bed, her mind still thrumming with want. Tom nearly moaned aloud as she crawled atop the coverlet and moved toward him like a predatory lioness.

 _Well, I was a Gryffindor, after all..._

Tom chuckled at that and reached to help guide her atop him. She straddled his thighs and wrapped her arms around Tom's neck, flicking her honey-brown eyes down between them.

 _Thick... throbbing... want it inside me from behind whilst he spanks me..._

Those thoughts, too, came whispered and distant as though she were making no effort to project them. Almost, Tom pondered, as if she were unaware of the thoughts entirely. That was how he realised that her filthy suggestions were reflections of her darkest fantasies, the ones that lay burrowed but intense in the back recesses of her mind.

 _Please turn me over and fuck me and spank me. Now, now, now..._

Tom's hands moved of their own accord then, whirling her roughly at her waist and sensing the excited surprise from her head. Her desire thrummed more loudly as Tom forcefully arranged her upon her hands and knees. He squeezed at her waist and pulled himself up behind her, thinking to himself that she was almost unbearably beautiful from this angle. The smooth expanse of her back led to the slim curve of her waist and hips. Her womanhood was presented to him like a gift, and as he tore her knickers down her legs, he thought it did feel a bit as though he were unwrapping a present.

 _My present comes when you fill me up..._

Tom felt his cheeks flush hot. She truly had a filthy mind, he realised, and he very much liked that.

 _I can't help it! I'm not trying to think such terrible things. I can't control those thoughts. Please don't think I'm indecent -_

Tom scowled and then laughed suddenly at the notion of Hermione Granger embarrassed by her own erotic thoughts. She glared over her shoulder at him and huffed audibly.

 _Your own mind isn't terribly pristine, you know. I see myself from your view. Is my arse really that big?_

Tom laughed aloud and gripped her waist more tightly, leaning over to plant a soft kiss in the small of her back.

"You're beautiful," he murmured truthfully, knowing full well she could see into his head to tell that he wasn't lying.

He pushed into her and pumped slowly for a while, savoring the wet squeeze of her womanhood around him. He paid close attention to her chaotic thoughts as she mentally implored him to go faster and pondered the feel of his member inside of her. There was a sort of pulse between them, a constant throb of want and need that seemed to be amplifying by the second.

 _Spank me... please, just take your hand and spank me. Hit my arse and growl in my ear and fuck me senseless and -_

 _THWACK!_

Tom's hand struck her before he could help himself. The desperate pleading in her mind had been too much. But instead of finding relief from slapping the cheek of her backside, Tom found himself flush with a furious desire to spank her again.

 _Yes. Yes. Do it again. Harder this time._

 _THWACK!_

Tom's hips bucked forward wildly, driving into Hermione forcefully as his palm slapped at her bottom. She moaned aloud and her mind vibrated with a scarlet pleasure. Then her voice was murmuring, pleading with him words that he heard far more clearly inside her head.

 _Reach around me and touch me... please, please, Tom. I need to come. Right now. Please help me come. Please._

Tom snarled like a wild animal and thrashed his hips hard against Hermione from behind, spurred into a frenzy by her thoughts. He spanked her thrice more, harder each time until she cried out with delicious pain. He reached around her and fiddled with her nub, feeling the slick spot where he slid in and out of her. He wondered whether she liked when he touched her there, whether his hands pleased her.

 _Of course it pleases me. Even when I touch myself, I imagine it's your hand. You make me... make me come so hard I can't breathe. Please -_

Then, very suddenly indeed, Tom felt a frantic and erratic clenching around the shaft of his cock. He groaned loudly at the feel of her walls drawing him into her body, at the way her mind exploded with her climax. There was a ringing emptiness for a moment as she came, and then suddenly Tom felt his own zenith approaching.

 _Want to feel it pump into me and then drip down my thigh... bloody hell, but he's thick..._

Her head was sending such obscene messages of blind arousal that Tom utterly lost control. His hands clutched harder than ever at Hermione's hips, and he yanked her against his body as he pushed roughly into her. Her backside made a fantastic slapping sound against his own hips each time he filled her. Tom tipped his head back and groaned as his thighs tingled and a coil of tension wound tightly in his abdomen. His ears began to ring and he wrenched his eyes shut, almost unable to make sense of Hermione's garbled thoughts.

 _I love you, Tom. Could do this forever, but I'm getting sore and tired and - oh, Tom Riddle, I love you so much that it hurts. It actually hurts to think of how I love you. Or maybe it just hurts because your cock is enormous. I don't care. Please come on my skin so I can feel it; I can't wait any longer..._

Tom yanked himself from her entrance and coursed his hand over his slick member. He watched himself throb and twitch, felt his shaft swell and harden in his hand. An animalistic snarl tore itself from between his clenched teeth, and then he was finishing all over the perfect expanse of her back. Beneath him, Hermione moaned and Tom's head pulsated with her mental relief.

He was still panting and flushed as he reached for his wand to clean her up. He cast a belated protective spell from above her, thinking that perhaps they ought to find a longer-term solution to the issue of contraception.

 _Or, perhaps,_ Hermione thought at him, rolling over onto her back and letting her fingers drift over her breasts, _we ought to become less concerned about it._

Tom frowned, for it had been Hermione who had always been paranoid about him finishing inside of her.

 _I know,_ she nodded. Then, aloud, she whispered, "You're probably right. There's likely a a potion or some such thing..."

Tom found himself unwilling to contemplate the matter any more deeply than that, and Hermione did not press him. He lay back upon the pillows and urged her to curl up against him. As he stroked her hair with his still-trembling fingertips, he sensed a deep contentment from her and a lingering twinge of pleasure. He smirked and wondered absently whether she knew how much he liked to touch her, to make love to her.

 _It was delightfully obvious_. Hermione raised her caramel eyes to him and giggled softly. Then she said aloud, "As much fun as this has been, I think you'll agree that this particular prototype of the potion allows for too much openness. Outside of the realm of an intimate encounter, I'm not certain what benefit could be derived from a mutual inability to shield a single thought or emotion."

Tom smiled crookedly and let his hand trail down her back. He nodded. "We shall need to continue experimenting until we find a solution that allows for more selective transmission and perception of thoughts," he agreed. "What's going on right now between us is nothing short of mental chaos."

 _But it certainly is nice for situations just such as this,_ Hermione grinned. Tom chewed his lip and wondered how long he would have to wait before his body would allow him to take her again. He certainly hoped he would be ready before the potion wore off.

* * *

 _August 1978_

"As you can see, we have experienced enormous success thus far with prototype formulations of the vaccine."

Healer Percival pushed a stack of parchments across the desk to Lord Voldemort, his ancient hands trembling as he did. Hermione reached over Voldemort's shoulder and picked up the top sheet of paper. Voldemort let her read in silence, turning his own attention to the charts of data indicating that preliminary research had been successful.

The past six months had seen wizarding Britain nearly overwhelmed with the outbreak of a frightening disease, one previously unknown but now recognised for its virulent and contagious power. The Healers were calling it "Jeiunium." The disease caused patients to lose half their body weight within two or three days, become immensely dehydrated, and quickly die. There had been over one hundred deaths in the past six months, mostly among the elderly and the medically vulnerable. The Magical Bugs department of St. Mungo's had become so inundated with hopeless cases that they had opened a dedicated Jeiunium clinic.

The terrible wasting disease had no known cause outside of idiopathic and inexplicable magical contagion. The only treatments which showed any promise whatsoever were intensive administration of fluids and of Esurit Elixir to encourage eating. However, even with treatment, most patients died within days.

Voldemort had quickly assembled a task force of Healers and potioneers to begin immediate development of a magical vaccine against the illness. Four months after commencement of research, Healer Percival sat in Voldemort's office at the Regia, presenting promising data.

"How was research conducted?" Hermione asked suddenly, and Voldemort looked up at Healer Percival as the old man hesitated a bit.

"We utilised materials from St. Mungo's patients, My Lady… both to develop the live vaccine and to practise with patient exposure -"

"And who did you expose?" Hermione snapped. Voldemort frowned and glanced disapprovingly over his shoulder at her. Sometimes, he thought, her good heart was still too pure for the gratingly unemotional life of ruling a population.

"We… we instructed inmates at Azkaban to touch materials handled by known Jeiunium patients, My Lady." Healer Percival shifted in his chair and looked uncomfortable. But he continued, "It was the only way to confidently measure whether or not administration of the vaccine made any difference."

"And so you sacrificed -"

"My Lady, I believe the most important consideration here is the population at large," Voldemort interrupted sharply, lowering his eyes to the parchments upon the desk. Hermione sighed lightly behind him but muttered,

"Yes. You're quite right, of course."

"And so when will enough of the vaccine be ready for distribution to the public?" Voldemort asked Healer Percival smoothly. The elder wizard tapped his fingertips together and said carefully,

"We have a dozen witches and wizards brewing as much as they can, as quickly as possible, My Lord. The first batches of oral solution will be finished brewing at the end of this month."

Voldemort nodded, satisfied by the news. He gathered the parchments and handed them back to Healer Percival, and then he dismissed the old man. When the Healer was gone, Hermione stepped around to stand before the empty fireplace. Voldemort frowned a bit in her direction and drummed his fingers upon the desk.

"You would not be pleased if Georgiana were to come down with Jeiunium and die," he pointed out, and when she turned round to protest, he pressed, "It is far better that a few rogues in Azkaban lose lives they were scheduled to lose anyway. If we do not tread carefully, this plague could be the end of wizarding Britain. You know very well that the successful development of a magical vaccine is the only hope our people have of avoiding catastrophe. Frankly, I do not care about the means of development; I only care that it is effective."

Hermione scowled, but finally said, "You and Machiavelli would be great friends, I think, Tom."

Before he could engage her further, there was a soft rapping upon the office door.

"Enter," Tom clipped, and the door slowly opened to reveal a rather nervous-looking Bilius Weasley.

"Good afternoon, Bilius," Hermione said with a bit too much warmth for Voldemort's taste. He found the young Weasley man to be obnoxiously effervescent, the few times he'd encountered him directly. He knew that Bilius Weasley and Georgiana had been good friends since their school days, and he had long suspected that the two were in love. Or, at least, that Bilius was in love with Georgie.

In the doorway, Bilius raked his fingers nervously through the thick red curls atop his head, and he stepped into the office and shut the door behind him. Voldemort narrowed his eyes at the way Bilius shifted upon his feet and cleared his throat, and he asked,

"Is something the matter, Mr Weasley?"

"Erm… My Lord, My Lady. I was wondering if I might have a moment of your time to discuss something of rather great importance."

Voldemort felt a sinking feeling in his chest then. He was no fool. Georgiana was almost twenty-seven years old and was unmarried. He knew perfectly well why Bilius Weasley had come, and why he was acting so strangely.

"Sit, Mr Weasley." Voldemort flicked his hand, and the chair opposite him slid back of its own accord. Bilius nodded and muttered some awkward thanks as he sat in the chair. Hermione strode to stand behind Voldemort, putting her hand upon his shoulder in a way that showed she, too, knew what was happening. But no one said anything, and Voldemort raised his eyebrows at last and prompted, "Is there something specific you wanted to discuss?"

Bilius flicked his eyes to Hermione and then back to Voldemort. He licked his lips and cleared his throat again, and his voice trembled a bit as he said quietly,

"My Lady, My Lord. I wish first for you both to know that… that my love for your daughter extends to the very depths of my being. That I find her to be very intelligent, and very kind, and very beautiful. I wish for you to know that every moment I spend in her presence fills me with unparalleled joy, that I frankly feel ill at the thought of spending my life without her."

Hermione's hand tightened upon Voldemort's shoulder. He took a breath to strengthen his resolve and managed to keep his face steely and blank as Bilius raised his pale eyes.

"I would promise to always take care of her, but I think we all know that Georgiana does rather an admirable job taking care of herself. Instead, I shall promise you this: my every waking moment will be devoted to Georgiana's happiness. I beg you, My Lady, My Lord. May I ask Georgie to marry me?"

There was a physical pain in Voldemort's chest then that he had not expected to feel. He should be unsurprised, he supposed, that this was happening. It might have happened a very long time ago, for Hermione had married him when they were both still in school. Georgiana was closer to thirty than she was to twenty. She was, indisputably, old enough to be married. And, pleased that Voldemort was with the formality of Bilius asking permission, he knew that it did not matter what he said.

His daughter had already grown wings and taken flight. She was no longer the little curly-haired child who climbed into his lap and begged him to read her stories. She was no longer the toddling creature who giggled and squealed, nor the petulant teenager who thought she knew everything. Georgiana was a woman now, with her own life, with factors beyond Voldemort's control that would make her happy.

"You love her?" Voldemort asked sharply, just because he thought he might like reassurance on the matter.

Bilius nodded and gave a shaky sigh. "With all that I am, sir."

Voldemort blinked hard a few times and chewed hard upon his bottom lip. He wanted to turn his face, to look at Hermione, but he thought his veneer of confidence would buckle if he did. Instead, he reached to put his hand over Hermione's, and he said,

"I wish you both all the happiness in the world, Mr Weasley."

Bilius looked enormously relieved then, and he nodded frantically and rose from his chair. "Thank you, My Lord. My Lady," he said, giving them each grateful smiles. As Bilius moved toward the door, Voldemort's mind thrummed with the push of a few clear words from Hermione's thoughts.

 _Go and shake the boy's hand, Tom._

Voldemort cleared his throat roughly and pulled himself from his own chair, striding briskly toward the door and snapping his robes into place about him. Bilius turned, wide-eyed, his hand on the doorknob. Voldemort paused before him and rather awkwardly held his hand out. He did not suppose he'd shaken anyone's hand in decades. Everyone bowed to Lord Voldemort; no one touched him except for his own family. Poor Bilius Weasley stared for a too-long moment at the Dark Lord's offered hand and then at last seemed to snap back to reality. He cautiously took Voldemort's hand and shook it, and Voldemort murmured,

"You are quite right, Mr Weasley. Georgie doesn't need anybody to look out for her. But do it anyway, will you? I'm rather fond of her."

He released Bilius' hand, and the red-haired man nodded with a little smile. "Of course, My Lord. Thank you."

* * *

 _August 1945_

The final day of August dawned with such vibrant sunshine that Hermione nearly leapt from the little bed in the cottage. She hurried to dress and kissed Tom's forehead as she made her way out of the little red door that led straight onto the sandy beach.

The wind whipped madly and the air had an undeniable chill, but Hermione did not care. The turquoise shade of the water, the utterly cloudless sky, the swaying green grass along the shore… Benbecula, she thought, might very well be paradise. She strode aimlessly toward the water and stopped when the waves threatened to lap at her boots. She stared out at the cerulean sea and breathed in the salt air.

The past several weeks had been spent in intensive research and study. Hermione and Tom had managed to create several potion prototypes, but each was deeply flawed. One version of the mind-reading solution led to constant verbal outbursts from the person whose mind was being read. Another prototype induced unbearably severe headaches in the drinker. Whenever they managed to conquer one problem, a new one emerged. At last, Hermione had suggested that they stop attempting to brew a potion altogether.

"Perhaps," she had suggested, "the answer lies with objects, not with a potion."

She recalled, from her 'previous' life, that the followers of Lord Voldemort had been branded with Dark Marks upon their left forearms. They were able to press their wands to the Marks and trigger the others, in a crude and rudimentary form of linked communication. Hermione had built upon this notion in her fifth year when crafting the coins used by Dumbledore's Army to gather.

A Protean Charm, then, might be the answer, she'd suggested. She and Tom had spent nearly a week linking two objects with Protean Charms, then building upon the bewitchment so that the objects might open a mental pathway between those possessing them. Thus far, the closest Tom and Hermione had gotten had been a set of two beach stones that allowed them to feel the general sensations of one another's emotions.

Now Hermione stood upon the shore and tossed little stones into the sea, wondering whether they ought to just give up and go back to Malfoy Manor. She knew that Tom wanted to invent things, to gain powers no one else had. Part of it was for show. If he built upon the notion of wizarding innovation, he could quickly become a popular and effective leader in Magical Britain. Hermione knew, though, that Tom also sought new potions and spells as secret means to make himself appear more powerful to his followers.

She supposed, ultimately, that he would not merely _appear_ powerful. He would _be_ powerful, and everyone would know it.

She reached into the pocket of her robes and pulled out one-half of their latest attempt at Protean-linked objects. The little silver skeleton key, dangling from a tarnished chain, unlocked a shed behind the cottage. It was ornately carved, so that it remained beautiful despite its age and patina. Hermione rubbed the key between her thumb and forefinger and sighed. She knew that, inside the house, Tom had a linked object of his own. His half of the attempted Protean link was a glistening chunk of black obsidian that they'd found upon the beach.

Hermione shut her eyes as she manipulated the key in her hand. These two objects were the most successfully linked of any they had tried thus far, but still all she received through hers was a general sense of contentment from Tom.

 _Of course he's content,_ Hermione thought with a smirk as she looked out upon the sea. _He's fast asleep._

She walked down the beach for a while, the low heels of her ankle boots sinking perilously into the wet sand every now and then. She held her robes up off the ground and sighed as she walked.

Thinking of her Dumbledore's Army coins over the past several weeks had triggered a rather intense sense of melancholy within her. She knew, of course, that the world that had necessitated those coins was not real anymore. She may have lived through that reality, but now it was no more than a shadow in her mind.

She thought of Harry and Ron, of the boys who had been her very dearest friends. She could still see the way Ron Weasley raked his fingers through his hair whenever Hermione's lectures became too cerebral; she could hear him exasperatedly scolding her to 'lighten up' and to relax. She could still see the lightning-shaped scar upon Harry Potter's forehead - the scar that he'd received when Lord Voldemort murdered his parents. When the backfiring Killing Curse had turned Voldemort into a quivering shell of a man.

Hermione thought of Dumbledore himself, of the way the old wizard had been kind and helpful and good-natured. She thought of how she'd revered Dumbledore, how she'd hung upon the Headmaster's anecdotes and bites of wisdom. She thought of the Voldemort she'd known, of the way people shuddered at his very mention. She thought of the sparking fury between Voldemort's and Dumbledore's wands in the Department of Mysteries, when she lay upon the ground, wounded by a Death Eater's curse.

She paused upon the sands of Benbecula and touched her fingertips to her abdomen. She shut her eyes and gulped. Though there was no visible scar, she could still feel the tender areas where Antonin Dolohov's curse had ripped her apart. That had _really_ happened to her, she knew. And yet, it was no longer reality.

Harry Potter and Ron Weasley weren't even born yet. Hermione had no idea whether they would _ever_ be born. She wondered, sometimes, what would happen on the 19th of September in the year 1979. Would _she_ be born again, into this new reality? And, if she was, what would happen to _her_ , to the Hermione who stood upon the rocky shore and touched at her phantom scar?

The Dumbledore in this world was not the Dumbledore she'd known. Perhaps, she considered, he was guided by blind adherence to the Light in the same way he'd been in her 'old' time. Perhaps he was embittered by the death of Gellert Grindelwald (something that had not occurred in Hermione's original timeline). No matter the reason, it seemed that this incarnation of Dumbledore was more suspicious, more sharp-tongued, more vengeful. He'd been saying things in the _Daily Prophet_ in recent weeks, things about how Grindelwald's death was a murder that should be prosecuted. He'd publicly accused Tom Riddle of killing Ladon Scamander, and he had stated that the wizarding community should rally to prevent The Dark Lord's ascent.

Public reaction leaned toward Tom in a way that Hermione knew had not happened during her 'original' timeline. Dumbledore was being mocked relentlessly in editorials and in magazines. Betty Cattermole herself had written an article asking, ' _Has Dumbledore Gone Batty in the Wake of Grindelwald's Demise?'_

This reality was profoundly different from what she'd already lived, Hermione pondered, leaning down and picking up a shell. She examined the shell for a moment and then hucked it into the waves as hard as she could. In some strange way, throwing the shell out to sea felt like she was releasing some of her past. She repeated the action, again and again, until she'd thrown a dozen little shells out to the crashing waves.

With each one, she imagined a bit of her memory that had become false.

 _Albus Dumbledore as a widely-revered master of magic, a voice of reason and a wise advisor to many._ Hermione tossed a shell as she cleared her mind of that impression and reimagined Dumbledore as he now was - a seemingly insane opponent of her wildly popular husband.

 _Tom Riddle as grey-faced Lord Voldemort, weakened and wounded in his old age and reduced to a shell of his former self._ Hermione threw a shell particularly hard at the thought of that, painting over the memory with the Tom she knew now. He was handsome, and charming, and quickly climbing to power.

 _Hermione Granger, daughter of two Muggle dentists, returning home for summer holidays and watching Last Night of the Proms with her father on the telly._ Hermione grunted roughly as she threw a particularly large shell out to sea, trying to erase the idea that her childhood was no longer reality. Television had not been invented yet. She would never see her parents again. For all she knew, they would never know her, either.

Hermione swiped at the tears that had begun streaming down her face, realizing that some of the sharper shells had cut into her palms. She blinked away her tears and steeled herself, pulling her wand out of her robes and healing up her hands. In her left palm, she still clutched the little silver key. She stared at it for a long moment as she had a rather novel idea.

Her heart fluttered as she pointed the tip of her wand at the key. Then, with a shaking voice, she murmured,

" _Annecto mentes in aeternum_."

* * *

 _August 1945_

Tom blinked his eyes a few times against the blinding sunlight that filled the little bedroom. He groaned softly and heaved himself up to his elbows, digging his fist against his left eye and wondering what it was that had roused him from sleep. It still felt early.

But then he realised Hermione's half of the bed was empty, and he frowned a bit. He rose and cleaned his teeth and washed his face, pulling on a casual set of black robes as he wondered whether she'd gone down to the shore as she was wont to do in the mornings.

Then, rather unexpectedly, his head felt strange. It didn't hurt, exactly; it was more like a hollow sensation and a silent _whoosh_. Tom leaned heavily upon the edge of the bed and tried to catch his breath. He rifled about in the pockets of his robes until he pulled out the small chunk of obsidian. As he turned it over in his hand, he heard Hermione's voice very clearly say,

 _Tom? Can you hear my voice?_

He felt rather nauseated by the force of her thoughts in his head. He shoved the obsidian back into his pockets, wondering whether the connection he was feeling was dependent upon him holding the stone. But then Hermione's voice asked again,

 _Are you awake? I can feel your mind…_

Tom cleared his throat of the bile that had risen, and he breathed tremulously. He strode the window and thought firmly, _Where are you?_

 _Coming back up from the beach. I've finally made the Charm work, Tom!_

There was a clear sense of relieved accomplishment in her thought-voice. Tom marveled at the clarity with which he was receiving her thoughts, at the fact that he was _only_ receiving internal dialogue she sent him rather than reading every thought in her head. Of course, this telephone-like function had not been his intention when he'd originally begun brewing potions at Malfoy Manor. But he could not deny the functionality and usefulness of what Hermione had achieved.

He strode briskly through the little cottage, his shoes clipping the salt-bleached floorboards as he neared the small red door. It flung open suddenly, and then a breathless Hermione was standing in the threshold.

 _Try showing me something. Not with words. An image,_ she commanded him through their mental link, and Tom frowned a bit. He licked his lips and stepped closer to her, wondering how it was he was supposed to 'show' her something. But then he thought of the principles of Occlumency, of how he knew to withhold certain memories and shove forth others. Utilising a similar technique, he pushed forth a scene that had burned itself firmly into his mind. He had no idea why it was that he'd chosen this particular memory. Perhaps, he thought, it was because this was something she might understand better by seeing herself.

 _Tom hovered over Ladon Scamander's huddled form in the Forbidden Forest. He kicked lightly at the boy's rather unresponsive body until Ladon gazed up at him. The plump, blond-haired boy was bleeding from his mouth and nose, and his hands were shaking as his pale eyes glistened in the moonlight._

 _'Legilimens,' Tom murmured, and Ladon's mind cracked wide open for him. He searched quickly through Ladon's mind until he found the ideas the boy had gotten about Hermione. Tom watched as Ladon imagined pressing an Imperiused Hermione up firmly against a wall, hoisting up the skirt of her dress and grunting as he plundered her. He would enjoy it, Ladon thought, even if Hermione had no idea what was happening._

 _Tom yanked himself from Ladon Scamander's mind and seethed for a brief moment before he whispered, 'Avada Kedavra.'_

 _The flash of green light was nearly blinding as -_

"Stop, Tom! Please, please stop. I don't want to see any more. Please..." Hermione was speaking aloud now, not sending thoughts to him. She clutched anxiously at her skull and paced before him. Tom withdrew the memory he'd been shoving toward her, and he cleared his throat carefully as he said,

"You've linked the objects quite successfully, I should think."

Hermione scowled at him. "Now I wish I hadn't been able to do it!" she exclaimed. "Why, Tom? I told you to show me something as a matter of demonstration, not to replay a murder you committed!"

"I told you long ago that Ladon Scamander deserved to die," Tom said quietly, taking another step toward Hermione. "I wanted you to see for yourself why that was."

She looked for a brief moment as if she were going to protest, to scold Tom as she'd always done that 'no one deserved death' and that he was a monster. But then a steely resolve came over her face, and he heard her think,

 _I believed you. I did not need to see._

"I'm sorry, then," Tom murmured. He reached to cup her jaw in his hand, half-expecting her to flinch or to slap him. But she rolled her face against his hand and shut her eyes. He closed the remaining distance between them and thought,

 _I only wanted to keep you safe._

"I know." Hermione nodded against his hand, her eyes still shut. Tom felt then as though the only thing to do was to kiss her, so he did. He leaned down and pressed her lips to hers, reflecting on the delicious taste of her kiss. Her lips parted rather unexpectedly, and Tom seized the opportunity to kiss her more deeply. His free hand wrapped around her waist and pulled her tightly against him, and his right thumb stroked beneath her eye soothingly.

 _Tom, promise me something._

Her thought came in a worried tone, and she sighed shakily into his kiss.

 _Anything_ , Tom thought back, though of course there were a great many things he could not or would not promise her. She pulled back from his mouth and he took in how pretty she was even when she seemed concerned. Her caramel eyes gleamed at him and her lips glowed red and swollen from his kiss. Tom shifted upon his feet, shoving away the sense of want building inside him.

"Promise me," Hermione whispered, raising her fingers to push aside a stray curl of Tom's hair, "Promise me that I will never despise you."

"I can't promise you that," Tom admitted, shaking his head and watching her face fall. She lowered her eyes and pinched her lips, but he tipped her chin back up so that she would look at him. He crushed her mouth with another kiss and heard her whimper softly, and then he thought,

 _I can promise you that I will love you fiercely until the day I day. I promise I will heed your advice - most of the time - and I promise I will never deliberately disappoint or frighten you. I promise you, Hermione, that I will make you proud to be my wife. It is all I can promise you. I hope that is enough._

He needed air then, even though he hadn't been speaking aloud. He wrenched his mouth off of Hermione's, instantly lamenting the lack of contact. She stared at him with wide eyes and nodded. Then she shut her eyes and whispered,

"It is enough."

* * *

 _March 1980_

"Well?" Georgiana rose from her chair as Bilius strode through the little red door. Georgie watched as the waves of the Benbecula shore crashed behind him. Sometimes she missed living among civilisation, but not often. Georgiana was terribly fond of the little cottage her parents had gifted to her on her wedding day.

Bilius raked his fingers through his windswept hair and grinned like a fool. "Molly's doing well," he said, "and would like to bring the baby here as soon as she's back on her feet. I think Arthur's in shock that it was another boy. I told him at least he's doing his part for the proliferation of the Weasley line."

Georgie smirked and rolled her eyes. "And the baby?" she pressed.

"Got a shock of red hair atop his little head, just like the rest of us. Poor lad was doomed to be a ginger, between the Prewett and Weasley blood." Bilius put his hands on his hips and smiled ever more widely. "They've called him Ronald Bilius, to honour yours truly."

Georgiana laughed and strode to straighten Bilius' robes, rumpled from Apparating. "I suppose it was only a matter of time before you had a nephew named after you."

"Still doesn't seem right that they named George after _you,_ but all I got was a ruddy middle name," Bilius teased. He touched Georgiana's cheek and said, "and as for our little girl? What shall we call her?"

Georgie put Bilius' hand upon her swollen belly and let him feel the fluttering movements of their child. She smiled warmly up at him and murmured,

"Merope. We should call her Merope, after a woman long ago who made a very difficult choice at the end of her life."

Bilius' jovial face went serious then, and he leaned to plant a kiss upon Georgie's forehead. "Merope Jean," he nodded. "She will be beautiful, like her mother."

Georgie curled up her lips and kissed Bilius again. He'd left the little red door open, so she could hear the crashing of the surf outside the cottage. The pulsing of the waves soothed her head, and she knew all would be well.


End file.
